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A z?r the author oe 

**THE SILENCE OF DEAN MAITLAND.*' 


Now Ready, in the January- Number of 

THE HEW YORK FASHION BAZAR, 

A NEW STORY, ENTITLED '' 

"THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEK.” 

BY MAXWELB GRAY, 

Author op “ The Silence op Dean Maitland,” etc. 


“The Silence of Dean Maitland,” published in The Seaside Library, has 
proved one of the most popular novels of the past year. Next to “ Robert 
Elsmere,” it has won the favor of the best judges. A new story by the same 
author will be eagerly read. 


The January Fashion Bazar contains the continuation of a romantic 

novel, entitled 

“GUELD A.” 

This is a story of rich, aristocratic and fashionable life in the highest circle 
of society. It is a story that will interest all readers. 

ALSO THE THIRD INSTALLMENT OF 

“SUZANNE.” 

By the author of “ A Great Mistake,” etc. A fresh and fascinating novel 
of liJfe in Rome and Naples. 

INTERESTING ARTICLES ON 

Domestic and HouseRold Affairs, Manners, and Fashions, 

By MRS. MARY E. BRYAN, 

MRS. 3IARY STUART SMITH, 

MRS. N. S. STOWELL, and others. 

The New York Fashion Bazar for January is a complete repository of 
modes and styles for the winter. It contains all tliat is new nnd fashionaide 
in the dresses of ladie.s and children for the pre.sent season. The colored 
plates of new children's fashions given on the cover of the magazine are 
particularly interesting this month. 


THE NKW YORK FASHION BAZAR is for sale by all newsdealers. It will also 
be sent, postaKe prepaid, for 25 cents per single copy. The subscription price is 
$3.00 per year. Address — 

GEORGE MUNRO. Miinro’s Publishing House, 

17 to '27 Vande water Street, New York. 


(P. O. Box 8751.) 


DAVID CHKISTIB MUERAY^S WORKS 

CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION): 


NO. 

68 By the Gate of the Sea. 

195 “The Way of the World.” 
820 A Bit of’ Human Nature. 
661 Rainbow Gold. 

674 First Person Singular. 

691 Valentine Strange. 

695 Hearts: Queen, l^nave, and 
Deuce. 


NO. 

698 A Life’s Atonement. 

737 Aunt Rachel. 

826 Cynic Fortune. 

898 Bulldog and Butterfly, and 
Julia and her Romeo. 
1102 Young Mr. Barter’s Repent- 
ance. 

1162 The Weaker Vessel. 


\ 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


CHAPTER 1. 

George Dolmer Delamere, Esq. , being advertised to lect- 
ure in the Athenaeum Hall, Bondage Road, Houndsditch, 
under the auspices of the Moral Tone Association, I paid my 
threepence, secured thereby a right of entry to the reserved 
seats, and went in to listen. I was at this time an idle man 
(not I think from any fault of mine), and anxious to find some 
business which should bring in butter for that necessary daily 
loaf which was already provided for me by a kindly fortune. 
In the hope that I might one day find a literary use for the 
knowledge 1 was picking up by bits and scraps, I had devoted 
myself for some months to the study of life and manners in 
various corners of London, and was in the habit of making en- 
thusiastic and copious notes. George Dolmer Delamere, Esq., 
was known to me, as to almost everybody, by name, and the 
doings of the Moral Tone Association had been trumpeted in 
the newspapers of late. 

1 sat down and waited in a waste little room, and had ample 
time to look about me. There were thirty or forty people 
already present, and at intervals of a minute or so a new- 
comer would appear, smoothing his hair furtively, and creak- 
ing to a seat on tiptoe, as though he were afraid of awaking 
the echoes. People coughed apologetically and shuffled their 
feet, and sat apart from one another. The place and every- 
body in it had an air of penance, and, so far as one might 
judge from appearances, the gospel of the Moral Tone was not 
gay or popular. The audience was made up mainly of young- 
ish men, most of whom looked thoughtful and earnest. They 
were ill at ease because they were not used to society, and they 
were evidently anxious to observe and evidently anxious to be 
unobserved. 

. When we had sat in a shuffling and uneasy silence for a quar- 
ter of an hour a dapper man opened a door at the back of the 
room and looked in. The scattered assernbly applauded, and 


6 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


the dapper man disappeared; but a few minutes later returned 
at the head of a string of ladies and gentlemen who, in accom- 
paniment to a dropping fire of hand-clapping, advanced to a 
low platform and took their seats upon it. The leader took 
his place at a red-clad table in the center, and at his right sat 
a gentleman whose very aspect was a lesson in tone. He was 
tall and slender and stately, and he condescended from his 
crown to his heels in every attitude and movement. His face 
was refined and capable, and he smiled in a complex way, 
which expressed curiosity and affable pity and a profound 
allowance all at once. He had a tall, bald forehead; silky 
white hair, rather unusually long; long, narrow hands of ex- 
traordinary whiteness and delicacy; and a mouth which, in the 
intervals of his smile, looked a trifie peevish and disappointed. 
He was in evening-dress, and would have looked remarkable 
and distinguished anywhere. Here he was as remarkable as a 
stag in a herd of cart-horses. I supposed this gentleman to be 
George Dolmer Delamere, Esq., and the dapper man in the 
chair confirmed my supposition by his introductory speech. 

Mr. Delamere, he told us, was a gentleman who had always 
taken the deepest interest in art. He was-known in the high- 
est artistic circles, as everybody knew; and his delicate taste 
and profound knowledge had secured for him a position unique 
in the artistic world. He wa's warmly interested, also, in the 
condition of the people, and the Moral Tone Association had 
been so fortunate as to enlist his invaluable sympathy and sup- 
port. The dapper man would no longer detain us from the 
intellectual treat in store. Mr. Dolmer Delamere would de- 
liver to us an address on the Line of Beauty. 

Mr. Delamere arose and began to talk, without preface, in 
a gentle and persuasive voice, which carried conviction of high 
breeding in every tone of it. A great blackboard on a wheeled 
stand was plac^ upon the platform, with a clean napkin hang- 
ing over it, and a number of pieces of white chalk scattered 
on a rest below it. While he talked he took down the napkin 
and polished the blackboard, as only an accomplished critic 
and a gentleman could polish a blackboard. By way of pre- 
liminary, he told us, in his soft, persuasive voice, that the only 
fashion of manfully facing the future was to convince ourselves 
that the past was dead. The creeds in which the human race 
had been cradled were dead and done with. The religious go- 
carts in which humanity had toddled for centimes were broken, 
and there was not the faintest little hope of mending them. 
That hope of a hereafter with which benevolent cheats or mis- 
guided enthusiasts had beguiled the poor and, suffering was 


THE WEAKEK VESSEL. 


7 


finally extinguished. There was but one life to live, and it 
must be made the best of. To make ' the best of it, it was 
necessary to redeem it from ugliness. Ugliness, whether 
material or moral, was a crime which created its own punish- 
ment — a crime infectious as measles. Everybody suffered 
from it, and almost everybody actively propagated it. He 
proposed to offer a slight — a very slight — reactionary dose that 
evening. He would do his humble best to show us what beauty 
was and what it was not. When everything was beautiful and 
everybody had caught the prevailing sentiment of things, 
everybody would be good and everybody would be happy, be- 
cause beauty and goodness and happiness were interchangeable 
terms. He put all this lightly, gracefully, in well-chosen, 
striking, and clear words, so that nobody could fail to under- 
stand him; and then, with a rare purity' of line and certainty 
of hand, he began to draw upon the blackboard. He showed 
us architectural lines which were ugly and architectural lines 
which were beautiful; and he drew for us curves of all kinds, 
talking without pause the while, and interesting everybody 
present. Then^iu awhile he mounted to the human face, 
and drew a plain but not unprepossessing countenance in three 
quarters. He pointed out to us how plain it was, and by the 
side of it drew another face, unmistakably the same, and yet 
pleasanter to look upon. Talking on and working with great 
delicacy and assurance of touch, he drew a third face, still un- 
mistakably the same, but charming; and finally, after a fourth 
step toward perfection, he sketched for us a face which was 
simply and purely beautiful. As he stood aside from each 
drawing in turn as it was completed, the little audience broke 
into warm applause; and when the last face was finished the 
stamping of enthusiastic feet raised a dust of faded odor from 
the floor, and made the place feel as if it had awakened after 
being neglected for a century. Then, when the applause had 
subsided, he told us how the faults in the first face, which 
made it plain, were due to certain inadequacies of character, 
and traced for us mental and moral progress in the lines which 
led up to beauty. 

Finally everybody was interested, and most were charmed 
and persuaded. If Mr. Dolmer Delamere condescended to us 
— and he did — it seemed so natural, and the condescension was 
so delicately and kindly expressed, that not a soul could dream 
of taking umbrage at it. How could he but condescend, mov- 
ing on so high a plane of thought, being so refined and sensitive 
and good, and so filled with that piety of cultured nature of 
which he spoke so often? His audience was rough and poor. 


8 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


and he was a product of ages of exquisitely refined thinking 
and living. 

The dapper man proposed a vote of thanks, which was most 
eagerly carried, and he promised Mr. Delamere that, if he 
should again honor them by his presence, an audience more 
fitting in number and enthusiasm would certainly welcome his 
appearance. Mr. Delamere responded, the ladies and gentle- 
men withdrew, and the audience crowded round the platform 
to discuss and admire the five faces on the blackboard, until 
somebody turned out the lights, and we were left to find our 
way out in the dark. 

The gas went out so suddenly, and I had been looking so in- 
tently at the five beautifully drawn outlines, that for an in- 
stant everything was left distinctly on the retina or on the 
mind. On the mind, I think, for I am conscious now, and 
seem to have been conscious then, of the pale ring of faces, 
and the tint of the walls, and the shape of the windows, and 
the colors of the shadows that lurked in corners, and half a 
dozen other little details of which the eye could not at any 
given moment have taken complete cognizance. The faces 
quite lived with me, and I went out into the streets in com- 
pany with them. 

I do not know if it may not seem a bold thing to say — per- 
haps it may seem a boastfully foolish thing, though it is no 
more than simple fact — but I never, in the whole course of a 
wandering and eventful life, have cast a conscious look upon a 
face, if it were only in passing along Eegent Street or in strug- 
gling to a carriage from a railway platform, but I could recall 
it clearly and identify it, and if I were artist enough could 
paint it. A picture impresses itself less vividly and profound- 
ly, and I have but dim remembrances of many portraits which 
I have scrutinized with care. The five sketches were but newly 
imprinted on the mind, however, and I carried them away 
with unblurred eyes. I compared the fourth and fifth, and 
somehow, though it was likely enough , that a finer moral and 
intellectual excellence was expressed in the last, somehow, in 
my unregeuerate way, I liked the fourth the better, and 
thought it a more human and lovable type. 

I sauntered on, widiout taking much notice of the people 
whom I passed or who breasted the bitter wind which blew be- 
hind me, until a something out of consonance with the street 
recalled me to myself. A pair of well-appointed carriages 
had halted at the edge of the horse-road, and Mr. Delamere, 
whose figure was easily recognizable, was shaking hands with a 
lady who leaned from one of them. 


THE WEAKER YESSEL. 


9 


Pray, let me drive you there/ ^ said the lady; it is so lit- 
tle out of our way/"’ 

No/’’ said Mr. Delamere. “ I am obliged to you; but I 
will walk until I find a hansom. 

I sauntered on, thinking. I heard the lady say: “Good- 
night, then,^^ and Mr. Delamere said to the coachman: 
“Home.'’"’ The carriage moved past me, and a minute or 
two later Mr. Delamere went by, weaving a scarf about his 
throat as he walked. He turned in passing and regarded me, 
and then went on with a slight shiver at the bitter wind, and, 
going at a swift and resolute pace, turned a corner and went 
out of sight. My way led me after him, and I followed. When 
I reached the corner he had already cleared the short street 
upon which I entered. Not a figure broke the monotony of 
its lines from end to end, and the neighborhood was more deso- 
late than a desert. The noise of the wind was dulled here, 
and 1 could still hear the quick and nervous beat of the lect- 
urer’s heels as he trod the pavement beyond the next turning. 
Suddenly the step paused, and there was a cry. I ran forward 
— I had not more than twenty yards to run before I reached 
the corner — and there wias the apostle of sweetness in the 
hands of three who were not as yet his disciples. He was strug- 
gling with them; his light overcoat was torn open, and I saw 
the gleam of his white shirt-front in the light of a street-lamp. 
As I came in sight of the swaying quartet I saw a blow 
struck. Mr. Dolmer Delamere fell full length on the pave- 
ment, and at the sound of my approaching footsteps the three 
scoundrels made oft' at a run. I shouted: “ Stop thief!” as I 
ran, and saw the fellows scatter and take different ways. 

Mr. Delamere was but little hurt. His hat was crushed, his 
right elbow was numbed — I had a fear at first that his arm 
was broken — and his coat was torn in two or three places. 
His watch dangled from its chain, and the buttons were torn 
from his waistcoat, but he had lost nothing; and when I had 
helped him to his feet we ran, at his urging, to the end of the 
street shouting: “ Stop thief!” until it became evident that 
his assailants had escaped. No policeman made an appear- 
ance, and, so far as I saw, no one appeared at door or window 
to manifest any interest in the affair. We settled down almost 
directly, and I ventured to observe — being young and nervous, 
and feeling it necessary to say something — that all the world 
was not quite converted to the principles of the Moral Tone 
Association. 

“ No,” he said; “ you arrived by a happy accident for me. 
Those fellows were ready for any extremity of violence. ” He 


10 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


looked down at me from his superior height, and by and by 
added: “ 1 have seen you before this evening?^^ 

“ Yes,^’ I answered. “ I was present at your lecture.-^' 

“You reside in this neighborhood he asked me, with 
that courteous condescension which had marked him all the 
evening. 

“Some miles away, I said. I went on to express some 
surprise and admiration for his coolness. Most men would 
have become a little flustered and excited. 

“ 1 have lived long enough to learn one important lesson,'^ 
he responded. “ Now is a man’s only time. When a thing 
is done, I have done with it.” 

I was much the more flustered of the two — indeed, he did 
not seem disturbed at all. He chafed the numbed elbow, and, 
catching me in the act of looking at him, he said, with a 
smile: 

“.That is a part of now, and will be for a day or two, I 
fancy. You go about among these people? Yes? You are 
not a clergyman? I thought not. A doctor? No? I student 
of human nature?” 

I blushed and pleaded guilty stammeringly. They were in- 
teresting — the people down here. I am afraid I caught some- 
thing of his own tone, and, being very young and an absurd 
prig and coxcomb in a hundred ways (though, as 1 believe, a 
fairly honest and lovable lad at bottom), I was pleased to find 
that he did not confound me with the rest of his hearers, and 
wanted him to understand that I was an intellectual young 
person. 

“ Yes,” said he, still chafing the numbed elbow, “ they 
make themselves interesting.” Then a moment later, “ What 
sort of a sample had 1 there to-night? Were they excep- 
tional?” 

“ Certainly not representative,” I told him. Exceptionally 
intelligent, curious, and anxious to. learn, I fancied. For the 
most part the people of that quarter seemed apathetic, stolid, 
not anxious to go beyond themselves and their affairs of every 
day. He was so easy, stately, and condescending that I was 
rather in awe of him, and expressed myself somewhat hesitat- 
ingly. 

“You must be good enough to let me know to whom I am 
indebted,” he said, when I had done speaking. He drew a 
card-case from his pocket, and we exchanged cards. He 
paused beneath a lamp and read my name and address aloud. 
“John Denham, 10 Warwick Court, Gray’s Inn.” A four- 
wheeled cab rumbled into the street; he hailed it, and it proved 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 11 

to be empty. ‘‘You must let me set you down, Mr. Den- 
ham, if you are going homeward now.^^ 

I accepted his invkation, and as we rode he persuaded me to 
talk. The rattling noise of the vehicle made conversation 
difficult, and I had to shout at him, so that I felt impudent 
and noisy. When the driver pulled up at the entran( 5 e to 
Warwick Court Mr. Delamere shook me by the hand, ex- 
pressed a desire to see more of me, promised to write in the 
course of a day or two, and then drove away. 

In a day or two an invitation to dinner awaited me. Mr. 
Delamere expressed a hope that I might not be engaged for 
the specified day, and asked me, if I should be so, to appoint 
another date and give him a week^s notice. I wrote at once 
to accept the invitation. I looked forward to the evening 
with a fiuttered expectancy, and was rejoiced to think that I 
was about to set foot in literary and artistic London. 


CHAPTER 11. 

I THiHK my chambers were among the tiniest in town. If 
there are less spacious apartments they are inhabited by people 
smaller of stature than the average Briton, or not inhabited at 
all. The bedroom was about the size of a Saratoga trunk, 
and the sitting-room was only a trifle larger. I was very 
happy there and very full of dreams and ambition, and I spent 
my days in pursuits more or less literary. I was not quite cer- 
tain in what direction I was to blossom, but I had a modest 
certainty that I should flower out in one way or another, and 
become rich and famous — a delusion which I have found to be 
common among bookish young men of three- or four-and- 
twenty. I had written a three- act comedy, which no manager 
would so much as look at, and a five-canto poem, which no 
publisher would venture to introduce to an uninterested world; 
and in the course of a score or so of chapters I had got the 
characters of an intended novel into so unearthly a muddle of 
cross-purposes that I had thrown aside the whole thing in dis- 
gust, and for the time abandoned it. None of these things 
destroyed or abated the modest confidence already mentioned. 

1 was sitting in my own room an hour or two after the dis- 
patch of my answer to Mr. Delamere’s invitation to dinner 
when I heard a^noise of hammering overhead, and after re- 
sponding to it by a vigorous eniployment of the poker on the 
brick-work of my fire-place, 1 threw open my outer door and 
awaited the arrival of the personage whose presence had been 
signaled. Above me dwelt a young man of seven-and-twenty 


12 


THE WEAKER VE3SEL. 


— four years my senior — Walter Pole by name. He had no 
occupation, and seemed in want of none; but he had a pro- 
digious circle of acquaintances. He read a great deal, though 
how he found time to do it was something of a wonder, and 
he lounged through time with a solemn insouciance which 
some people found irritating and others charming. He was a 
good deal of an athlete, and chose to disguise his activity by a 
pretense of idleness, propping himself up lazily against the 
walls and doors with his head rolling idly, as if in quest of a 
restful corner, and his hands in his pockets. He and I were 
great chums; but he feigned to be too idle to walk down-stairs 
to knock at my door like an ordinary Christian, and always 
demanded an answer to that noisy signal of his before he would 
take the trouble to descend. 

On this occasion there was a pause between the signal and 
the sound of his steps upon the stair, and so, leaving the door 
open, I resumed my book and went on reading. In those 
happy days — it was the spring of the year 1865 — Charles 
Dickens was alive and at work, and the whole English-reading 
world was engaged with Mr. Silas Wegg and Mr. Nicodemus 
Boffin. I am aware now — on the authority of an American 
gentleman who ought to know — that since the great mastery’s 
death fiction has grown to be a finer art than it was in his day, 
but somehow— whether with advancing years one’s faculty for 
enjoyment grows duller, or whether the gilt had been rubbed 
off the fictional gingerbread by the defacing hand of Time, as 
it has been rubbed off gingerbread of so many other kinds — 
there comes nobody who delights me in his way. I would fain 
have the finer sorts of art which have grown up in the last 
score of years, abolished, and the dead master back again; or 
— and the second wish seems likelier of fulfillment — would fain 
see some new man rising who would make me laugh and cry 
as he did, and as he still does whenever I look into his noble 
and delightful pages. 

A new book from Dickens. Let elderly and middle-aged 
people remember what it meant, and let me enjoy myself for 
a minute as I recall that afternoon. 

I forgot the signal and the open door, and I read on until 
the last page of the number was finished. Then I became 
aware that the fire was out, that the door was still open, that 
the dusk of the spring evening was falling fast, and that I was 
stiff and cold. 1 rang the bell to have the fire remade, and 
then walked upstairs to the first landing. The door was 
closed, but my chum answered to my knock, returning to his 


IHE WEAKEE VESSEL. 


13 


pocket, as I entered, the hand he had used to open it, and 
beckoning me in-doors by a backward movement of his head. 

“ I was coming down,^^ he said, but I had a call just as I 
knocked to you. Do you fellows know each other We did 
not, and he introduced us to each other. “ Jones. Denham. 

Jones presented rather a striking figure. He was taller than 
common — six feet two, I should say — he differed very much 
from what one^s ideal Jones should look like; he was magnifi- 
cently mustached and bearded; he had jet-black Italian-look- 
ing eyes and an olive-colored skin. His features were remark- 
ably delicate and refined, and his long wavy hair was parted 
in the middle. 

“ I beg your pardon,’’ he said, in a soft voice which had a 
faint suspicion of an un-English accent, “ but did 1 see your 
name upon the door-posts as I came upstairs?'’ 

“ I live in the rooms below these,” I answered. 

“ Was it you who saved Delamere’s life the other night 
he asked. 

Saved his life?” 

“ He certainly said so.” , 

“ I saved his watch,” I said. “ I was lucky enough to hear 
him call out, and when I turned the corner the men who had 
attacked him ran away. I don’t think his life was in any 
danger.” 

“ Well,” said the Italian-looking Jones, smoothing his glossy 
beard with a hand of beautiful whiteness and delicacy, “he 
quite thinks he would have been killed if it had not been for 
the happy accident of your arrival; and he is, I assure you, 
boiling over with gratitude.” 

Remembering Mr. Delamere’s unusual coolness, I was a lit- 
tle astonished at this, but I said nothing. 

“The Delameres are great friends of mine,” continued 
Jones, “ Delamere is a remarkable man. He has never done 
half as much as he should have done, of course; but he stands 
aloof from modern art a good deal, and lives with the ideals of 
the past.” 

With this a certain undefined uneasiness took possession of 
him, and in a little while began to develop oddly. He rose 
and poked the fire. He fidgeted with the gas, raising and 
lowering the flame of the burners. He strayed to the book- 
shelves, and there took down and opened a score of volumes, 
returning each after an apparently unseeing glance at one of 
its pages. Pole, with one leg thrown across the other, fol- 
lowed these movements with a glance of some meaning, and 


14 


THE WEAKER VESSEL 


once or twice the merest glimpse of a smile flickered across his 
face. 

“ What’s the matter, Jones?” he asked, after awhile, when 
the other’s signs of uneasiness had become so marked as to 
seem to call for some recognition. 

Jones seemed to make up his mind, and then seemed to re- 
coil from his determination, and then seemed to make up his 
mind again. 

“ Do you sketch at all, Pole? Do you paint?” he asked. 
“ Have you any sketching tools about? Anything will do.” 

“ No,” said Pole, “ I’m sorry to say I do nothing in that 
line. What is it that’s a-hurting you, my boy? The divine 
afflatus?” 

“ I’ve an idea,” said Jones, wincing as if it hurt him to 
have this not too-pointed bit of fun poked, at him. I want 
to get it down before it goes. Anything will do. A bit of 
brown paper and a fragment of charcoal. Anything.” 

There’s your brown paper,” returned Pole, opening a 
drawer and setting a sheet of paper on the table. “ And 
there’s your material for charcoal.” He drew a packet of fire- 
wood from a lociker, and cutting the string which surrounded 
it, thrust one of the pieces between the bars of the fire-place, 
and left it there. 

Jones pounced upon the paper, smoothed it with both hands 
upon the table, and then thrust a second stick between the 
bars. 

“Don’t let that burn too far,” he said; and drawing out 
the first, returned to the table, and with the burning bit of 
wood began to work all manner of preparatory eager signs 
with it, as though he were hungering to realize his idea. 

Now at this time it was meat and drink to me to see an 
artist at work; and I arose to watch the Italian -looking Jones 
with an excited interest of a sort which hardly any other spec- 
tacle in the world would have awakened in me. There was a 
glamour about, an artist, even if he were a duffer, which no 
other earthly creature had about him. Jones, with that 
clumsily shaped bit of charcoal, before the red sparks had 
fairly died out of it, began to draw with a feverish hurry and 
rapidity. Pole got ready one bit of charcoal .for him while he 
used another; and in something under five minutes, as 1 should 
guess, a very beautiful and noble face was expressed upon the 
brown paper, and the artist threw himself into a chair and 
lighted a cigarette. His eagerness to get the sketch made had 
seemed a little exaggerated, and now his indifference and lax- 
ness seemed a little overdone. I was young, and, as does not 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


15 


happen with every young man in the world, I knew it. I mis- 
trusted my own experience, and yet I seemed to discover a 
something overdone in the Jonesian enthusiasm of desire and 
its rapidly followed exhaustion. Did artists really work in that 
way? Were they so seized by an idea, and so incapable of re- 
sisting it? Or was Jones exceptionally gifted, or exceptionally 
susceptible, or was he a little bit of a hum — ? I dared hardly 
complete the inquiry. 

Pole stood over the table with his hands in his pockets and 
his head on one side, and looked enjoyingly at the drawing. 
For my own part, I was a little staggered by the bold swiftness 
and dexterity with which this inspiration had been brought to 
life, but Pole^s becoming face expressed a gratification so un- 
usual for him that my doubts died, and I began to think that 
I was in the presence of a new Michael Angelo. 

“ I say,” said Pole, in his idle wav, “ you must let me keep 
this, old fellow. 

“ If you care for it,^^ Jones answered, languidly. ‘‘ IPs off 
my mind now. I've got it down, and I can get it again when- 
ever I want it." 

‘‘You don't mean to say that you could reproduce this in- 
spiration accurately?” Pole asked him, still beaming at the 
drawing. 

“ Oh, yes," said the artist, with a careless modesty. “ You 
see," he added, waking up a little, “ when an idea gets into 
the mind it offers itself sometimes in a will-o'-the-wispish, tan- 
talizing kind of way. It comes and goes, revealing itself in 
glimpses which are neither clear enough nor prolonged enough 
to make that kind of impression on the memory which is 
necessary to fix it. But if you can catch the tricksy thing and 
set it in form, no matter how roughly, it is your own property 
for good and all. The definite impression is secured — clearly 
stamped on the mind. I shall never forget that face again." 

He dropped back into languor, relighted his extinguished 
cigarette, and smoked in silence. Two or three minutes later 
he arose, looked at his watch, took up his hat, and said good- 
bye. 

“ I think," he added to me, “ that you dine with the Dela- 
meres on Monday?" 

“ I wrote to-day," I answered, “ accepting." 

“We shall meet there," he said; and with more good-byes 
he went away. 

Pole, having closed the door behind him, came back at a 
waltz, and having circled the room twice or thrice, cannoned 
against a sofa and fell into it, laughing. Then he got up and 


16 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


looked at the charcoal drawing and rubbed his hands, and 
laughed again, with an enjoyment so genuine that I laughed 
with him. 

“ Here's a lark," he said, still chuckling. 

“ Where is it?" I asked him. 

^‘Here," he answered; and opening a drawer below the 
book-shelves he drew out a sheaf of papers, from among which 
he produced a rough sheet of gray paper, such as grocers use, 
and, holding it before me, displayed to my astonished vision an 
absolute replica of the drawing which had just been executed 
in my presence. He set the two side by side, and we examined 
them together. They looked almost as if they might have been 
produced from the same lithographic stone. 

‘‘ What is this?" I asked; “ a coincidence?" 

“ Yes," sr.id Pole, turning upon me with a delicious grin of 
mischief, “ a coincidence. Do you know Wilson Craig? No? 
He's a far-off cousin of mine — Scotchman. Poor Sebastian 
had the same idea at Craig's only a week ago. He was tor- 
mented by it; was obliged to get it out. If you can once 
catch the tricksy thing, you know, it's your own property for 
good and all. But it comes and goes, my boy, revealing itself 
m glimpses which are neither clear enough nor prolonged 
enough to make that kind of impression on the memory which 
is necessary to fix it." 

‘‘ Sebastian?" I asked. Who is Sebastian?" 

“ Sebastian! Sebastian is Jones. Sebastian Dolmer Jones. 
His name has been a damage to him. If his godfathers and 
godmothers at his baptism had seen to it that he should be 
called Bill, or Dick, or Tom, or Harry, it would have been a 
blessing for him. But Sebastian Dolmer's bound to be a bit 
out of the way, and to have artistic cranks and furies, don't 
you see? Sebastian Dolmer can't even speak his native tongue 
without a little bit of foreign accent. How should he? Bill 
Jones could have done it, or Dick, Tom, or Harry, but Sebas- 
tian and Dolmer couldn't manage it between 'em though they 
tried ever so. Thank your stars you're plain John, my boy." 

I felt a vicarious shame. I would greatly have preferred 
that Jones should not have been bowled out in this ignominious 
way. Pole's rejoicing at it seemed cruel and unfair. 

“ Rubbish!" said he, when I put this before him. The 
only advantage this kind of humbug brings with it is that a 
man can laugh at it. What do you think pretense exists for, 
unless to be found out and laughed at? You're going to dine 
with the Delameres, are you? Then you're going into the very 
nursery and citadel of humbug. The dinner's real and the 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


17 


wines are real. Plates, knives, forks, spoons, chairs, tables, 
white ties, shirt-fronts, dress-coats, all real. But the people 
and the sentiments! Keep Sebastian Dolmer in your mind, 
John. There^s a lot of Sebastian Dolmer in the enlightened 
converse of the Delameres. But whenever you hear it your 
safeguard is to say ‘ Jones ^ to yourself. Look here!^' " He 
became quite hot upon a sudden, and struck the table, lean- 
ing across it and looking me straight in the eyes. “ Fll tell 
you what you^ll find there. You’ll find the sham enthusiast 
in art, who doesn’t know a Eubens from a Vandyke; and the 
sham enthusiast in humanity, who wouldn’t part with sixpence 
to save you from starvation; and the sham enthusiast in 
friendship, who’ll stick pins and needles in a wax caricature 
of you when you’re gone; and the sham enthusiast in the last 
new fad of atheism, who’s deadly afraid of ghosts and says his 
prayers on the sly; and the sham enthusiast in poetry, who’s 
as wooden under her wooden simper as this wooden table. 
They tremble with sensitiveness, every man Jack and woman 
Jill of them, and they’re just as tough-hided as a lot of camels. 
They’re boiling over with sympathies of all sorts if you listen 
to ’em, and they’re dryer than the desert sand. Look at 
this!” He snatched the drawing vehemently from the table 
and held it up before me. “ Why can’t plain Jones come here 
and say, ‘ I’m j ust itching all over to show you how practiced 
and dexterous I am. There’s a rapid bit of certainty for you! 
And. now I’ve staggered you, I’m happy!’ Vanity’s a natural 
passion, and, like all natural passions, it’s useful while you’ve 
got the bit in its mouth and the reins in your hands. But the 
beggar comes . Sebastian Dolmering with his stale old inspira- 
tion and turns his own cleverness into a shameful lie.” 

“ They can’t all be like that,” I hesitated. The fancy made 
my head ache. I was young and ingenuous, and I wanted to 
believe in people. 

‘‘ Go and dine with the Delameres,’’ he answered, still 
speaking hotly, “ and then tell me how far I’m wrong.” 


CHAPTEE III. 

I WENT to dine with the Delameres, and while I dressed and 
while I was on the way I felt as if I were somehow on a mean 
errand —as if I were going to spy out the defects of my host 
and convives, and find out each one of them in a false en- 
thusiasm. I had no right to accept a man’s hospitality on 
those conditions, and the dinner began to take the aspect of an 
ordeal. It seemed especially terrible to face Jones, whom I 


18 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


already knew to be a pretender. He would probably go on 
pretending, and I should have to look and listen and to pre- 
tend to be deceived by his pretensions. As we get older we 
take a more humorous or a more allowing view of human 
foibles, unless we happen to have been so bitterly wounded by 
them in our sensitive days that the whole world grows hateful; 
but there is nothing more hopeless and mournful to the heart 
of an ingenuous lad than the beginning of disbelief in his fel- 
low-mortals. 

I was partly relieved and cheered by an unexpected en- 
counter at the door of Mr. Delame re’s house in Cromwell Ter- 
race. A little old gentleman was in the act of discharging a 
hansom there as I drove up, and as he stood on tiptoe to reach 
the outstretched hand of the cabman I recognized him. This 
little old gentleman was the Eeverend Dr. Fish, an old friend 
of my father’s and a great favorite of mine. There was a good 
fat vicarage in my native Warwickshire village, and Dr. Fish 
had held it for many years. In his old age he had allowed 
himself to be transplanted to London, chiefly in order to make 
room for his son, who had taken the living the doctor had 
vacated. 

Ha, John, my boy,” said the doctor, as I alighted and 
stood waiting by him at Mr. Delamere’s door. “I expected 
to meet you here.” He was silent when a man-servant opened 
the door and while we disembarrassed ourselves of hats and 
coats, but when we had mounted the stairs and found ourselves 
alone in the drawing-room he began to speak again. I heard 
of your gallant conduct the other night. Delamere mentioned 
it to me, and — ^you mustn’t be offended, John — he talked 
about doing something for you. He has a weakness for pat- 
ronage. I told him of course that that would never do, and 
told him who you were, and so on, and as a matter of fact you 
are here under my recommendation. Delightful people — de- 
lightful people — but curiously exclusive.” 

I was on the point of saying that I had been surprised to find 
him there, but remembering that Mr. Delamere ’s opinions 
about religion afforded me my only grounds for surprise I kept 
a judicious silence. The old doctor, with his eyes beaming 
benevolently behind his gold-rimmed glasses and his soft old 
face alight with friendship and amiability, touched the theme 
which was in my mind. 

“ They are, as I said just now, delightful people, but I am 
not sure that some of them may not be a little dangerous if 
placed in contact with a mind not altogether formed. They 
nave curious opinions, even reprehensible opinions sometimes, 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


IP 


some of them. There^s that book of Seeley^s, and there^s that 
other book of Renan^s. They are not works which I would 
recommend a young man to study; but after all, you know, 
John, we must know doubt to fight it, and I find Mr. Dela- 
mere a kind of mental tonic. ” 

It was plain that Dr. Fish felt it necessary to justify his pres- 
ence there. “ You don’t know Miss Delamere yet!” he went 
on. “ Of course not. Of course not. A very superior young 
lady, a very charming young lady. Perhaps a little overedu- 
cated. I am no friend to these new-fangled notions about 
female education, but she wears her learning lightly, and she 
is certainly very charming.” 

Mr. Delamere appeared and welcomed me very agreeably. 
The guests began to drop in, among them Jones, whom I 
greeted with a wretched consciousness of embarrassment, being 
afraid, though I knew how unreasonable the fear was, that he 
was somehow aware of my knowledge of him, and thinking all 
the while how hideously ashamed he would have been if he 
were aware of my discovery. I was introduced to an American 
lady who was assuredly old enough to be my mother; a lady 
who wrote poetry, and blushed and simpered behind her fan 
like the dear young creature she had been thirty years earlier, 
and made my life a burden to me while I tried to talk to her. 
Then I was introduced to a tall and stately foreigner, who left 
me abruptly to talk to a fat woman in red, who received him 
with a shrill ecstasy, and then, while I was rather forlornly 
turning over the leaves of a book of engravings, a lady who 
commanded my instant attention sailed into the room, and 
moved from one to another with salutations and welcome and 
apology for being late. There were more reasons than one for 
looking at her, for, to begin with, she was very strikingly beau- 
tiful and graceful, and dressed with a taste which, though 1 
was then even more ignorant in such matters than I am now 
— ^^and that is saying a great deal — seemed to me altogether ex- 
quisite. But the thing that enlisted my attention was this. 
The fourth drawing of that suite of five which Mr. Delamere 
had executed upon the blackboard at the lecture for the Moral 
Tone Association had been neither more nor less than an 
accurate reproduction of Miss Delamere’s face. 1 could not 
help thinking that in a person of Mr. Delamere’s reputation 
there was something wanting in good feeling and delicacy in 
having drawn his daughter’s features for the instruction and 
amusement of that mechanical crowd, and when I came to re- 
member the comments on the fifth drawing and his cold-blooded 
artistic improvement on his child’s features, I felt for the mo- 


20 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


ment as if I liated him. But Mr. Delamere himself carrying 
me up to his daughter and introducing me to her as the hero 
of his adventure of a week ago, and making much of me to her 
in spite of some feeble protest of my own, I had no time to 
pursue my thoughts of him. When it appeared that I was set 
apart to take Miss Delamere down to dinner, and when it ap- 
peared further that everybody was impressed with an absurdly 
untrue idea of my courage and usefulness on the night of the 
attack, I resigned myself for awhile in a kind of stupor. Pole^s 
denunciation of the Delameres and their set of friends and 
acquaintances was with me for an hour and more, and nothing 
but my beautiful neighbor's easy charm of manner drew me 
away from the memory of it. 

Mary Delamere was two years younger than myself. She 
had a perfect self-possession, and a distinguishing quietude of 
manner which would have become a princess. She was very 
beautiful, and in her quiet, kind way did so much to put me 
at my ease that I became grateful to her, and was not Jong in 
arriving at the conclusion that, whatever brand of insincerity 
might have been marked upon the rest of the people there 
present, she herself was as honest as daylight. Nothing about 
her pleased me so much as the soft, sincere serenity of her 
manner — a something so gentle and engaging that I have no 
words for it. One used to hear — for phrases come into fashion 
and go out again, as clothes do — a good deal of the eyes as the 
windows of the soul. 1 never knew anybody of whom the say- 
ing seemed as true as it did of Mary Delamere. Candor lived 
in those large gray orbs of hers. They were not made to hide 
deceit. Before the evening was over I was ready to fight any- 
thing or anybody in defense of that belief. 

Perhaps if it had not been for Pole’s diatribe of a day or two 
earlier I might have been more disposed to believe in the sin- 
cerity of other people at the table. There was a lady opposite 
to me who talked of her poor, dear Hottentots in tones of 
greatest affection and as though she owned a nation, but I 
never learned in what relation she and the poor, dear Hotten- 
tots stood to each other, or on what ground she made them 
hers. A long-haired, clean-shaven man sat beside her and held 
the table spell-bound for awhile as he spoke of ’the desecration 
of a Turner which was in the possession of a titled acquaint- 
ance. 

“ They had had it cleaned, Delamere,” he said, with a voice 
and manaer of resigned despair. “All that lovely impasto 
architectural stuff turns out to have been built up in white and 
glazed. They have cleaned the glaze away, and now the thing 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


stares at you, with the middle distance hanging over the fore- 
ground — a forlorn line of dirty chalk. I could have cried with 
anger. 1 could positively have shed tears of mortification. 1 
could indeed. 

The long-haired, clean-shaven man made this protestation 
with a sort of reserve, as if he would rather that we didn't 
think too highly of him for it. 

Jones said it was heart-breaking, absolutely heart-breaking, 
and (as an aside to the man behind his chair) that he would 
take a little currant-jelly. 

1 caught Miss Delamere's eye at this moment and was guilty 
of a youthful impertinence, of that sort which is only per- 
petrated by shy people, who, as a matter of fact, say and do, 
in their own desperation, the most impudent things which are 
said and done in the world. I asked why the gentleman didn't 
cry, if he wanted to. Her eyes laughed, but she held up a 
warning finger. 

“ You must not say that sort of thing," she answered. “ It 
is not good form. " 

I was horribly disconcerted, and for awhile found nothing 
else to say. The man had irritated me. I was persuaded that 
he had cared less about the Turner than 1 should have done 
myself, and that he had only mentioned its destruction in order 
to show how delicately toned he was, and what a love for art 
he had. But of course 1 had no least little right to ridicule 
her father's guests to the lady of the house, and 1 told myself 
that nobody but a cad could have dreamed of making that un- 
fortunate observation. Yet Pole's opinion of the people was 
working in me, and 1 had been embarrassed by the willful ex- 
aggeration of my own accidental service, and Jones's trick of 
being inspired with the same urgent fancy twice running was 
present in my mind, and I seemed to breathe an atmosphere of 
humbug which stifled me. 

1 suppose Miss Delamere saw my embarrassment and took 
pity upon me. 

“ You live in Gray's Inn, 1 think, Mr. Denham?" 

“Not actually within the inn," 1 answered, determining 
that I at least would be precise. “ In Warwick Court, just 
outside the inn gates. " 

“ Do you happen to know a Mr. Pole who lives there?" she 
asked me. 

“ Very well, indeed," I answered, not much relieved from 
my discomfiture by the introduction of his name. 

“ He was a great friend of ours until a little while ago," she 
said. “ He used to be very enthusiastic at times about art and 


22 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


books and politics, and we thought he had a career of some 
sort before him. Is he — you know him well, you say — is he 
changeable?'^ 

I thought not. He pretended to be lazy; but what with his 
friends, and his books, and his athletics, he must always have 
his hands full. 

“ Oh, yes," she said, “ I know that way of his, but I was 
not thinking of that. Tliere are a great many young men who 
are ashamed of being thought enthusiastic, and he is one of 
them. He used to come here very often, and my father had 
become attached to him, but somehow he has drifted away. I 
should be obliged if you would tell him that he was asked for. 
You must understand," she added, brightly, ‘‘ that he and I 
are friends of fifteen years' standing, and that I have old-es- 
tablished rights to an interest in him." 

It was clearly impossible to say what I knew of his reasons 
for staying away, but I promised as lightly as I could to con- 
vey her message. Then I began to wonder whether Pole had 
included this delightful young lady in his condemnation of her 
father's guests. 

“ They can’t all be like that," I had said to him when he 
had done with J ones. 

“ Go and dine with the Delameres," he had answered, 

and see how far I am wrong." 

And now, bent on discovery, and quite certain that if he at- 
tacked Miss Delamere with the rest, then I should be able to 
confute him, I watched my chance. Somebody spoke of the 
civilizing influences of art. Art seemed the Delamere gospel 
— the tidings of joy to an ugly world- the only possible re- 
demption of men'and women lay in it. 

“ Don't you think it easy," I asked her, ‘‘ to overestimate 
the things that art is going to do for the world? Isn't there 
at least a little danger of falling into a sort of cant about it?" 

She looked at me with a surprised smile. 

“ Do you know," she said, with that patronizing air which 
young women can always assume so successfully with men who 
are but little older than themselves, “ I was at first inclined to 
think you shy, Mr. Denham! But you are a very bold person 
indeed, if you dare to ventilate that doctrine here." 

“ But reall}^," I stammered, “ it all sounds wild to me. I 
— I won't speak of it, if I must not, but — " 

“ Let us talk of it later," she said. “ Colonel Seaf or th is 
talking. He is always worth listening to." 

The possibility that this speech included a counter-proposi- 
tion, to the effect that I was not worth listening to, so weighed 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


23 


Upon me that I lost the first part of Colonel Seaforth^s speech. 
When I was able to listen I found he was telling a story of a 
comrade who died before the Redan. Nothing could have 
been better than the manner of his narrative, nothing very well 
more affecting than its matter. I was ashamed of my own 
eyes, and made a pretense of eating to disguise myself. 

“ What a theme for a poem!^^ said the American lady, 
clasping her hands together. “ Oh, may I use it. Colonel Sea- 
forth? Mayl?^^ 

“ I should prefer the theme in marble, said the clean- 
shaven man. “I can see the cold, inscrutable calm of the 
dead face. 

“ No, no, Cumming,^^ said our host, shaking his head with 
a grave decision. “ You forget the costume.^' 

“ You are quite right, Delamere,^’ returned the clean-shaven 
man. “ I forgot the costume. Language is the medium for 
it after all. It is one of the themes in which omission becomes 
the chief artistic virtue. 

So they forgot the hero in the space of ten seconds, and the 
lady opnosite was reminded by the story of something which 
had happened among the poor, dea^ Hottentots, and had no 
earthly bearing upon it, so far as I could discover. 

The dinner came to an end, and when coffee had been served 
the men followed the ladies upstairs. There was some excel- 
lent music, and a great deal of desultory clever talk, and then 
people began to go. No further chance presented itself for 
talk with Miss Delamere, and when I came to think of it I 
seemed to have acquitted myself so ill with her that I did not 
dare to make an opportunity. I had been insrlent about one 
of her father^s guests, and I had accused the whole table of the 
vice of cant, and altogether the sooner 1 hid my head in shame 
the better it seemed likely to be for me. I took advantage of 
Dr. Fishy’s farewells to shelter my own, and, much to my sur- 
prise, found Miss Delamere’s cordiality in no way diminished. 

“ We are at home on Fridays,^^ she said, kindly, ‘‘from 
nine in the evening. Come next Friday, and bring Mr. Pole 
with you. Will you.^"^ 

I promised for myself, and said I would bring Pole if I 
could. She raised her eyebrows in reproof for what I knew to 
be a kind of gaiiclierie, and 1 got away covered with confu- 
sion. 

“ Pole?^^ said the old vicar, when we reached the street to- 
gether. “ Walter Pole? Are you a friend of his? 1 used to 
meet him at the Delameres. A bright young fellow of high 


24 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


principle, I always fancied. I used to think—oh, well, that^s 
no business of mine. 

We walked to the street corner together, and there separated, 
each taking a hansom. Pole was in his own rooms when I got 
home, and hearing me enter, came down in his dressing-gown 



and slippers. 


‘‘ Wefl,^' he asked me, “ what do you think of 

I didn’t know. I was weary and dispirited. I told him 
with a little heat, when I began to talk at last, that he had 
spoiled my evening for me, and that I believed them to be a 
deal nicer and more genuine than he thought them. I believe 
1 charged him, in my own mind, with the three failures of 
which I had been guilty. 

“ I suppose,” 1 said at last, “ that you don’t include Miss 
Belamere among the sham enthusiasts. I don’t think I ever 
met a more delightful girl.” 

“ Miss Delamere’s another pair of shoes, John,” he an- 
swered. “ I wasn’t talking of Miss Delamere.” 

I told him of the invitation I had for him, and in his own 
idle way he began to beat the half-extinguished fire with the 
poker. 

“ Yes,” he said, drawlingly, poising the poker in his hand, 

I think I’ll go.” Then he dropped the poker with a crash 
in the fender, and said, with startling emphasis: ‘‘I’ll be 
hanged if 1 do.” And with that he got up and marched 
away, leaving me staring after him. 


CHAPTER IV. 


Pole sauntered into my rooms on Friday evening just as I 
was making ready to start for Mr. Delamere’s house. I had 
not seen him since his curious exit, but I had sent him a note 
asking him to provide me with some excuse or message in case 
he should be inquired after. 

“ So you’re going, are you?” he demanded. 

“ Yes, I’m going. What am I to say to Miss Delamere?” 

“I suppose,” he said, propping himself against the bed- 
room door and lounging there, “ that the straightest thing to 
say will be that I wouldn’t go.” 

I put it to him that that was an unamiable message for a 
friend to deliver. He shrugged his shoulders and rolled about 
against the door for a time with a manner which seemed to 
disclaim responsibility. 

“If you like to invent any social lie, you may, my boy, but 
I’m not going to save your conscience by inventing it for you. 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


25 


Say you tried to persuade me and failed. Is that too hard for 
you?’^ 

“ Do you want to make enemies of them?’^ I asked. 

“ Enemies or friends — it is all one to me/^ he answered. 
‘‘ I don^t suppose they^ll care greatly whether I go or not, 
and Pm sure I sha^n^t care much how they take it.^^ 

There are thousands of people. in the world for whom one 
doesnT greatly care/^ I urged, “ but one doesiiT go out of the 
way to wound them. You might send a civiler message. 

“ If old Delamere asks for me,^^ said Pole, “ you can tell 
him that I think and speak of him with a constant want of 
respect and veneration. If Miss Delamere should do me the 
honor to call me to mind again, you may tell her that I am 
sorry not to be able to meet her.^^ 

Finding that I could make nothing better of him than 
this, I set out, and arriving at Cromwell Terrace in due time, 
found the rooms already fairly filled. Miss Delamere shook 
hands with me, and afterward I got into a corner and sat dull 
and resigned, knowing nobody and noticed by nobody. The 
rooms were filled with a loud buzz of talk; and I saw so many 
introductions going on that it seemed as if nobody knew any- 
body except the host and his daughter. After the space of an 
hour Miss Delamere found me out and sat down beside me. 

‘‘You did not bring Mr. Pole?^^ she asked. “I suppose 
that you have seen him?^^ 

“ Oh, yes; I have seen him.'’’ A sudden awkwardness fell 
upon me, and Miss Delamere, who was toying with her fan, 
looked up and became immediately aware of my embarrass- 
ment. 

“ He refused to come?” she said. “ Did he give a reason 
for it?” 

I began to stammer something, but she stopped me almost 
at once. She made no display of temper or confusion, or in- 
difference. 

“ Will you tell me actually what he said?” Then, seeing 
that I grew more embarrassed than before — for I knew that I 
was making a foolish effort to smile in an allowing sort of way 
for Pole, and an apologetic way for myself, and failing horri- 
bly — she added: “ Never mind, Mr. Denham. I ought not 
to" have asked you. I shall be right in thinking it was not 
pleasant or friendly. Now let us^alk of something else. Do 
you care about celebrities? That is Mr. Cushing — the gentle- 
man with the eyeglass and the black ribbon — the author of 
‘The Spider.’ Have you read it? No? People are talking 


26 


THE WEAKEK vessel. 


about it a great deal. That is — and so on through half a 
dozen. 

They were all people with whose names I was more or less 
familiar, and it was interesting to see them for the first time. 
1 had forgotten Pole for the moment and the discomfiture his 
purposed absence had brought upon me, when Miss Delamere 
brought him back to memory. 

“ Have you known Mr. Pole long?^^ she asked. I told her 
1 had known him pretty intimately for a year. ‘‘ You like 
him?^^ Yes, I liked him much. 1 felt as if this avowal were 
a sort of tacit expression of his approval of want of politeness 
in her case, and made it awkwardly. I thought at the time, 
and I knew later on, that she understood me, but she pursued 
her questioning. “He is not natively impolite, I fancy."^^ I 
thought not. Brusque, perhaps, but too kindly to be insolent 
or ill-bred. “ Shall I introduce you to Mr. Cushing? I must 
go now, for 1 see more people coming and I have to receive 
them. Oh! Here is Mr. Jones. You know him already. 
Sebastian, I leave you and Mr. Denham to each other. 

Jones sat beside me in the' place she vacated and began to 
talk, but I could see that his heart was not in it, and that he 
was somehow distracted. He appeared to be more interested 
in his own coat than men comnlonly are, and sat plucking at 
his sleeves with delicate thumb and forefinger until I made a 
discovery which I suppose I ought to have made much earlier. 
Jones was not attired in absolute black as other men were, 
but had had his clothes cut out of very dark claret color. 
When he was sure that my observation was attracted by this 
fact he mentioned it. 

“You are looking at my coat? It^s something of an inno- 
vation, and I dare say that one may be laughed at for it. But 
really one finds the monotony of English dress oppressive, and 
evening-dress has quite grown beyond one's power of endur- 
ance. One has been looking for some sort of moral Curtius to 
throw himself into the gulf for years past, and since one can't 
find him one must sacrifice one's self. " 

He invested the theme with a certain air of lightness. Since 
that time I have seen men jest under fire in the same spirit. 
1 could see that he felt the seriousness of the position. 

“ Somebody has to lead the way, and of course it doesn't do 
to be too bold at first. One may find somebody to follow one's 
lead, or even to go beyond it. The thing once started may 
make strides. One doesn't know. But really it seems im- 
possible that men should be content to go on forever in the 
present monotony of hideousness. " 


THE WEAKEK VESSEL. 


27 


1 began to take an interest in Jones. The artistic humbug 
with which he had chosen to mark the beginning of my knowl- 
edge of him had made him noticeable, and this new develop- 
ment, which seemed to be so admirably in consonance with 
the first, helped to make him worthy of study. For the first 
time in my life I began consciously to try to see inside a man, 
to appreciate his standpoint, to- endeavor to see how he saw 
things, and what kind of opinion of himself supported him. 
It struck me that since I was perilously near to hating and 
despising him, and since he was perilously near to self-worship, 
it might be worth while to study him, if only with an eye to 
reconciling the difference and striking a reasonable balance. 
You have a right to be grateful to the man who sets you upon 
any new field of mental effort, and I have to thank Jones for 
many happy hours. 

I began to observe him closely. He was very far from being 
uncomely, and so far as I could discover there was nothing in 
the way of warning in his face. He had very fine, soft, dark, 
Italian eyes, faithful and sincere to look at, with just such a 
patient longing in them as you may see in an intelligent and 
affectionate dog’s. His mustache hid his mouth, but his fore- 
head seemed to express honesty and candor. Nothing but a 
slight pinching of the nostrils betrayed any poverty of nature 
or littleness of sentiment. Something of coxcombry and affec- 
tation could be traced in his manner, but no't enough to offend, 
unless you were somewhat too readily disposed to be offended. 

‘‘ D'elamere quite desponds,” he said, clinging to his theme. 

But, then, Delamere is elderly; he is getting on in life, and 
one doesn’t expect to find the enthusiasm of hope in a man of 
his years. I dare say, now, you take this for a sort of ridiculous 
trifling; but really it isn’t so if one looks rightly at it. When 
beautiful dress was a part of every gentleman’s duty the arts 
flourished as they have never flourished since. Every assem- 
blage of ladies and gentlemen afforded the eye a feast of delicate 
and rich coloring. The popular taste was educated to color, and 
to us who look upon tone and forms as the elementary civilizing 
influence, the question of dress assumil an importance which, 
of nourse, it can not wear to those who do not share our con- 
victions. To dress with grace and refinement is one of the 
ways to thinking and living with grace and refinement.” 

While Jones was talking thus Mr. Delamere appeared in our 
neighborhood, and, taking a chair which happened to be 
vacant near at hand, drew it up to the sofa upon which we 
sat, and placed himself before us. 

“ Nobody would think,” he said, striking in here, of dis- 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


38 

puting that proposition, but really we are at such a period of 
decadence that — He paused with an air of dejection, but 
brightened a moment later. 1 don't know," he went on. 

When things are at their worst they sometimes mend.' 
Perhaps we may really hope for a rebound from all this. The 
popular taste can never be finally depraved." 

“ Everything seems to move in grooves," said Jones, seri- 
ously. “We have our cycle of ugliness with us now. We 
shall move out of it by and by." 

“ I'm not sure," said Mr. Delamere, putting up a pair of 
gold-rimmed glasses, the better to scrutinize Jones's raiment, 
“ that the point of departure is well chosen. You see, Sebas- 
tian, that if you push your point to its legitimate conclusion 
you may arrive — you must arrive — at golds and reds and blues. 
Now the question comes. Will the material and the form lend 
themselves to a richly colored ti’eatment? To my mind that 
question carries its own answer." 

“ I have thought it out, sir," Jones answered, with a re- 
spectful firmness of demeanor. “If we desire to move the 
crowd we must have their good-will. To be moved too sud- 
denly is shocking. The material is too important, too solidly 
fixed as it were, to be tampered with at first without danger. 
A slight deviation in color — a mere hint of movement in the 
right direction — can give no shock, while it may invite atten- 
tion." 

“Of course," returned Mr. Delamere, “ one has not spent 
sixty years in the world without learning patience, but even 
now the narrow-mindedness, the extreme limitation of vision 
which characterizes some of the best-meaning people one en- 
counters, is a little trying. I was speaking of this very theme 
the other night at the Trelawneys', and a gentleman, whose 
name 1 have forgotten — he turned out to be a medical man of 
some eminence — -chose to be mightily satirical. I remember 
now, a Doctor Brand, a disorderly giant of a man; a man, I 
should say, judging from what I saw of him, of excellent 
capacities. He thought the soap-boiler a more practical person 
to encourage in the Oiuse of civilization than the codumier. 
He put it rather well, but ‘ My dear sir,' I said, ‘ cliacun a 
son metier. Let us all work together. Let us welcome any- 
thing that helps. Soap and the scrubbing-brush by all means, 
but then I do not deal in soap and scrubbing-brushes.' I 
heard him afterward — he is a loud man, not too well-bred, 
and one can hear him over a whole room — and he was talking 
of fiddling and Rome burning, and that sort of thing. He 
found some listeners, too." 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 29 

There is no popular art-feeling/" said Jones. “ There is 
no conception of the necessity of an awaking.'^ 

I thought of many things, but then I k^new how young I 
was, and I kept silence. Mr. Delamere took up his parable 
anew. 

“ I am a little tired, he said. “ One doesn^t sacrifice one’s 
conclusions any the more for being tired, but I confess to a 
little fatigue. There are none blinder than those who won’t 
see, and people will not see that to be ugly is to be immoral. 
They have to see that two and two make four. That is a 
matter of the counting-house, and must be remembered in the 
purchase of the daily loaf. But they are quite sunk in stupor 
about everything that does not relate to their hateful daily 
comforts. One moves them for a moment — even in Hounds- 
ditch ” — he looked at me — “ one finds people who will listen; 
but they go to sleep again.” 

‘‘ One would hardly think, sir,” said Jones, with a mourn- 
ful appeal, “ that you would shrink from lending the weight 
of your own example to a movement of this sort. ” He shook 
his claret-colored sleeve, and, looked almost hopelessly at 
Delamere. 

“ I do not disapprove of it,” said he, solemnly. “ It is well 
meant, Sebastian, and it may bear fruit beyond your expecta- 
tions. But 1 am too old, a little too much daunted by futile 
experiment, too saddened by repeated failure. Youth has 
the vitality for experiment. By the way, I must show you my 
last bit of Worcester, Sebastian. Are you interested in china, 
Mr. Denham?” 

I was on the edge of some idiotic rejoinder about the opium 
traffic, but I understood in time, and saved myself. Mr. 
Delamere piloted us down-stairs and showed us a cabinet, with 
most of the contents of which Jones was evidently familiar. 
My host, delicately handling some of its treasures, grew ex- 
tremely eloquent and interesting. 

‘‘ He probably knows more about old Worcester than any 
man alive,” said Jones when we were left to ourselves again 
by the chance intrusion of other guests. “His learning is 
prodigious.” 

I went away dazed that night. I felt somehow as if I had 
been beaten about the head. My wits were scattered, and I 
did not get at them easily. This solemn air of going crusading 
about the color of a coat and a pair of trousers, this prodigy 
of learning in old crockery-ware, fairly stupefied me. I walked 
alone, and my soul rebelled at it all. This huge London, said 
I, hotly, to myself, lies sweltering about them, noble and 


30 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


loathly, all comedy and tragedy, and they turn their backs 
upon it, and blind themselves from the sight of it, and find, 
their soul’s bread in bric-a-brac and the wine of life in the 
distillation of the fashion plates. And I thought myself par- 
ticularly clever, and felt that I was great and magnanimous 
and altogether what I ought to be by comparison with these 
triflers, and got into a very satisfactory state of mind by reason 
of them. But if I thought poorly of the great art critic him- 
self or of Jones his pupil, 1 had formed, without knowing any 
very sound reasons for it, a different opinion with regard to 
Mr. Delamere’s daughter. I do not pride myself upon any 
special discernment on this account, for a boy^’s judgment 
about a young woman is liable to be influenced by facts of 
which he takes no count. Mary Delamere was, to begin with, 
a very beautiful girl, and, to continue, she was to my mind, 
even in her personal aspect, better than beautiful. I thought 
I read nothing but candor and goodness in her looks, and if 
for once I was right, it is not a thing to be greatly proud of. 
I have thought the same things since, and have been wrong, 
and it would be a worse world than it is if all the eyes that 
look sincere and honest were the loop-holes through which 
mean natures peered to spy their own advantage, and all the 
unwrinkled foreheads and blooming cheeks and laughing lips 
were no better than pretty disguises. Here and there in the 
world, in the middle of all the chicane and frivolity, and that 
pitiless icy selfishness which is the deadliest because the com- 
monest of human crimes, you find a nature so honest, so true, 
so gentle and tender that your only way with it is to love it 
and worship it and wonder at its goodness. And you are a 
lucky man if its very goodness does not sometimes make your 
heart ache. 


CHAPTER V. 

I HAD no need to discover that Mr. Delamere and Sebastian 
Jones were not wholly given over to the demon of hollowness. 
Mr. Delamere’s books held a good deal of sound thinking and 
admirable writing, and Jones’s pictures were visible to prove 
his faculty of imagination, and to shqw that he could draw and 
paint what he had imagined. But what with Pole’s emphatic 
condemnation of them — which carried great weight with me at 
the time — and my own small discoveries and obserfations, I 
should have fallen away from them altogether if it had not 
been for the fact of Mary Delamere’s influence. I do not 
think that I was eyer in love with her, though I might have 


THE WEAKEE VESSEL. 


31 


gone that length but for another's unconscious intervention; 
hut from the first I admired her and revered her, and credited 
her with all imaginable good qualities. It was so great a 
pleasure to meet her that it more than atoned to me for the 
impotent exasperation 1 felt in the presence of Jones, and the 
bewildering contempt with which Jones’s friend and patron in- 
spired me. 

It was then entirely upon Miss Delamere’s account that 1 
kept up my acquaintance with her father, and consented to 
give his halls the benefit of my presence, and his society my 
carefully disguised contempt. But 1 should- never have 
known in its details the story I am about to tell if it had not 
been for one or two accidental circumstances, such as are al- 
ways happening in life to jostle us out of the road upon which 
we fancy that our feet are set, and into new roads upon which 
we had never the remotest intention of traveling. 

Mr. Delamere’s out-of-season entertainments and receptions 
came to an end. The entertainments and receptions of the 
season, which were of a much more exalted and magnificent 
description, were suddenly, according to annual fashion, ar- 
rested, and in mid-May the house in Cromwell Terrace was 
closed and the family went abroad, accompanied, as 1 learned, 
by J ones. Mr. Delamere found a certain spell of continental 
Life per year quite necessary for him, and he preferred to take 
it when th® winter health-seekers were all gone home, or going, 
and before the arrival of the annual summer and autumn 
crowd of tourists. He liked to have the foreign galleries to 
himself as far as possible, and always, wherever he might be, 
he had a sort of haughty and tolerant patience for the crowd. 
He spent his life in directing the vulgar gaze toward objects of 
art, and he resented, in his polished and gentlemanly way, the 
presence of the people he so constantly and eloquently invited. 

Pole and I, having nothing better to do, went up river and 
lived aboard a hired house- boat. The business arrangements 
which had been necessary before we took possession of our 
summer-house were entirely carried out by Pole. I knew 
nothing about the boat until we entered upon it beyond the 
fact that it belonged to “ Old Goldsmith,” that we paid forty 
pounds for its use during the summer season, and that during 
the regatta week at Henley its proprietor would expect to have 
leave to quarter himself upon us. I bad that vague and gen- 
eral idea of Old Goldsmith which people gather of men they 
have heard of and never seen, and it naturally happened that 
when he presented himself in the fiesh he proved to be the 
exact opposite of what I had imagined. 


. THE WEAKER VESSEL. 

I remember the day perfectly. I have reasons for that ex- 
actitude of memory, as will in due course appear. It was 
broiling hot, and in the first week of June. The river was 
low, and the clayey bank beside which the house-boat was 
moored was already fissured with the heat, and its baking 
cracks gaped like so many Tantalus mouths above the water, 
which flowed so near and so unreachable. 1 was half asleep in 
the dinghy, and Pole was lounging on the deck, making the 
shallowest possible pretense of reading Koman law, when a 
movement on his part awoke me from my dreams, and he 
murmured softly to himself: 

“ Now what on earth does that old scoundrel want here?^' 
Which old scoundrel 1 demanded, sleepily. 

“That old scoundrel said Pole, nodding his head back- 
ward. ‘ ‘ Old Goldsmi th. ^ 

I rolled over in the dinghy, and, with my elbows on the 
stern seat, looked down the river in the direction indicated by 
Pole^s nod. On the smooth, mirror-like expanse of the river 
there was but a single craft, and seated in it, holding a tiller- 
rope in either hand, was a fat, contented-looking young man 
of undeniably Jewish aspect. His black eyes gleamed and his 
fat cheeks creased, and his Hebrew nose wrinkled in a smile of 
recognition, as the boat, impelled by a sunburned waterman, 
whose neck and arms were of the color of a new-baked brick, 
bore down upon us. His white teeth, which looked the whiter 
by contrast with the jetty little mustache curling above them, 
held the stump of a fat cigar. He was dressed in white boat- 
ing flannels, and a huge cable of watch-chain ran from one 
breast-pocket of his flannel coat to the other. The plump 
hands that twirled the tiller-ropes were all over rings. His 
diamonds gleamed, his watch-chain gleamed, the black eyes 
and white teeth shone as he bore down; he seemed to shine all 
over; and what with the bright daylight and the sunny river, 
and this opulent glitter of the new-comer, the effect on my 
sleepy eyes was altogether dazzling. 

“ Halloo!’^ said the new-comer, as he stepped aboard with 
a dapper dexterity. “ Here you are. 

“ Yes,^’^ said Pole, casting a lazy eye at him from under the 
rim of his straw hat, and speaking with a conspicuous absence 
of welcome in his tone; “ here we are. Who’s a-denying of 
it?” 

The new-comer stooped to the boatman and handed him a 
coin. 

“ This won’t do!’’ said the boatman. “ I want a shillin’.” 

“He wants a shilling!” The new man appealed to me. 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


33 


“ Did you ever bear such a thing? Why do you want a shil- 
ling? What do you want a shilling for?’’ 

“ Why? ^Oos it's the regular charge. What for? Why, 
for scullin' you up here." 

“ Upon my word!" said the new man, still appealing to me 
— Pole had gone back to his pretended study of Eoman law 
again — “ Pm always befng got at. Everybody gets at me. 
There you are; that's a sixpence. Go and revel on it, go and 
revel!" 

His voice stoppe'i half-way in his hooked nose, and all his 
n's sounded like d's. He laughed with a delightful cunning 
and self-approval, and his black eyes and white teeth twinkled 
more brightly than before. , 

“It's beastly hot," said the waterman, wiping his tanned 
forehead with his red fore-arm. “ Twopence wouldn't break 
a gentleman like you, would it, Mr. Goldsmith?" 

“ What a wandering style of conversation!" cried Mr. Gold- 
smith. “ What's the connection between the heat and two- 
pence?" He pulled out an ostentatious handful of gold and 
silver^ and turned it over from one hand to the other, 
facetiously blowing upon it, as if to sever the wheat from the 
chaff, and showing to me and the boatman some thirty or 
forty sovereigns. I saw the glittering eye look at me to re- 
mark if I had noticed this little Pactolus as it flowed jingling 
to and fro with metallic ripple. “ I haven't got twopence. 
D'ye think a gentleman carries coppers about with him? 
There's a threepenny bit for you. Upon my word everybody 
makes a marU at me, and everybody brings me down. I'm 
not half active on the wing. I can't escape 'em." 

I had never met so merry and so self-satisfled a young gen- 
tleman. He fairly beamed with self-approval; and he smiled 
and smiled at the smiling boatman, who seemed to recognize 
a certain humor in him, until the latter disappeared round the 
bend of the river. Then the gay young gentleman leaned over 
Pole and slapped him on the shoulder. 

“What brings you here?" asked Pole, without looking at 
him. 

“ A little bit of pleasure. A little bit of business," he re- 
sponded, gayly, seeming in nowise disconcerted by the evident 
coolness of his reception. 

“ Well, get both of them over," said Pole, rising and saun- 
tering into the house-boat. The smiling Jew followed him, 
and by and by I heard Pole asking for pen and ink. 

I confess that, though I tried not to be curious, I did not 
succeed to my own complete satisfaction. The jingle of money 
2 


34 


THE WEAKEE VESSEL. 


within the boat made me fancy that some part of Mr. Gold- 
smith^s belongings were passing to Pole. _ I cast the diughy 
loose and sculled idly over to the other side of 'the river to 
avoid hearing more. Pole was supposed to have a good deal 
of money of his own, and 1 did not understand what was going 
on at all. It was obviously none of my business, but I would 
a great deal rather have believed th^t Pole had nothing in the 
way of borrowing to do with the smiling young personage, and 
yet it seemed from that jingling of coin and that asking for 
pen and ink, as if money were changing hands between them. 
Then 1 bethought me that though I had paid my half of the 
house-boat rent beforehand, Pole might not until now have 
settled with the owner, and so dismissed the matter from my 
mind. 

My companion and his visitor shortly afterward appearing 
on the outer deck of the house-boat, I sculled back again. 
Pole was grave and silent — but he was often grave and silent, 
and it was his manner to seem constantly self-possessed. I 
could not avoid a feeling that something of importance had 
happened; but the sense of it was only in the air, and there 
was nothing to give the fancy solidity or shape. 

“ If you'll wait here awhile," said Pole, turning on Gold- 
smith, ‘‘I’ll go up to town with you." 

“ All right," he responded, cheerfully. “ I’ve got to take 
two or three petticoats to see Bedford and Toole in the Pauly- 
Tooley-Technic Entertainment, arid I want to get back again. 
Stunning funny name, ain’t it? Pauly-Tooley-Technicr. Bed- 
ford’s name is Paul, you know — Polytechnic. See the joke?" 

“Yes," said Pole; “ it’s a fascinating bit of humor. Wait 
there." 

Mr. Goldsmith remained upon the deck, and affably offered 
to beguile the time of his waiting by tossing with me for a 
sovereign. I declined this sportive offer. 

“ Look here!" said the agreeable young man. He selected 
two sovereigns from a little handful, and sitting down upon 
the deck, with his back lounging against the wall of the boat, 
he began to toss and catch the sovereigns with a flourishing 
dexterity Vhich seemed wasted on so simple a process. “ We’ll 
go the best of sevedteen," he said, “ and see who’d have won 
if we had been tossing. I like to go a big long number because 
it prolongs the agony. I call to you on the right hand and you 
call to me on the left. ’’ When he had arranged the prelimi- 
naries to his own satisfaction he entered upon his self-appointed 
business with gravity. He called “ eight all," and even seemed 
excited. Again he spun the glittering coin, and peered into 


THE WEAKEE VESSEL. 


35 


his palm to see the result. “ I should have lost/^ he said. 

always do lose. There’s nothing like my luck in the 
world. I never have a slice of luck like other people. Now, 
wod’t you have a flutter?” 

Still I declined, thinking of a famous phrase in the collected 
works of a philosopher of his own nation, and half inclined to 
quote it to him. Surely the net is spread in vain in the 
sight of any bird. ” I repressed myself, however, and he sunk 
into silence, and producing a miniature book from an inner 
pocket fell to checking entries in it with a little gold pencil, 
until he became absorbed enough to forget me. By and by 
Pole appeared, dressed for town, and he and Mr. Goldsmith, 
stepping ashore, took their way across the fields toward the 
railway station. 

I was a little curious still, in spite of myself. I should as 
soon have thought of the magnificent and refined Mr. Dela- 
mere himself associating with this young Hebrew, as of Pole, 
who was fastidious in the choice of his companions. If I had 
been disposed to criticise my friend I might have thought that 
he was a little too ready and too profound in disdain, and Mr. 
Goldsmith was Just the kind of person of whom he would be 
most readily and most profoundly disdainful. Yet the two 
had dealings together, and the fat little Jew at least was ob- 
viously unconscious of any great social or intellectual difier- 
ence between them. 

I was displeased to find myself clinging in fancy to this 
problem, the solution of which, however simple or complex it 
might be, was assuredly no business of mine, and I took up a 
book to get rid of it, but still finding myself hovering round 
the theme in a manner which I felt to be altogether absurd 
and undignified, I walked off to the village, locking up the 
house-boat before I started, and ordered dinner at the inn. 
Pole and I did our own cooking, and were getting to be ex- 
pert, but a regimen of chops and steaks palled somewhat 
when the pleasant novelty of providing for ourselves was worn 
away, and on this particular afternoon I felt a distaste for 
solitude. 

Nothing seemed very entertaining that afternoon. I 
lounged about the river-bank until dinner was ready, and 
then sat down to my meal in a room overlooking the stream, 
and read the day before yesterday’s newspaper as I eat. Din- 
ner over, and I made it last as long as I could to kill the time. 
I hung at the window watching the few craft about the str-eam, 
when I heard my friend’s name mentioned loudly and dis- 
tinctly. 


36 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


Mr. Pole. Mr. Walter Pole."" 

A lady stood at the steps by the water-side, and near her was 
the man who had brought Goldsmith to the house-boat. The 
man answered in a murmur, pointing up stream. The lady 
said Thank you,"" in a somewhat harsh and metallic-sound- 
ing voice, and turning away from him looked casually up at 
me as I looked out of window, and so moved away. *She 
struck me as being overdressed, and her face was painted. 
She was perhaps two- or three-and-thirty years of age, of a 
handsome and imposing presence, but reckless and passionate 
to look at, and I had an instinct that she had been drinking. 
In the mere second for which her eyes rested on mine they 
were scornful and defiant; and in her manner of looking away 
from me there was a world of disdain. 

The lady struck me as being no more a desirable acquaint- 
ance from Pole"s point of view than the Jew had seemed to be 
— if anything a little less. The memory of her face and figure 
stayed with me; I might almost say it haunted me. There 
was a sort of imperious abandoned devilry about her which 
made me think that she had fallen utterly out of her own 
esteem, and that her worse self stood before her better self, 
striving to stare her down and brazen her out of her re- 
proaches. 1 can not tell how or why, but the magnificence of 
her dress seemed to be in contradiction with her face. I fan- 
cied her in squalor, with the great lustrous coils of her heavy 
hair unloosed and hanging in disorder. 

She kept me in unpleasant company across the fields as I 
walked back to the boat. I saw her at a distance once, draw- 
ing patterns on the turf with the point of her laced parasol, 
and looking downward. From where she stood she could see 
the house-boat if she were but minded to look at it; and 1 
had so much aversion to the possibility of being recognized as 
one of its inmates and being questioned by her that I purpose- 
ly sauntered away from it until I assured myself that she had 
disappeared. Then 1 approached it, dropped into the dinghy, 
and pulled up stream. It was an hour before I came back 
again, and the shades of evening were beginning to fall. The 
lady was on the deck of the house-boat, trying the door, 
which I had locked some two or three hours earlier. It was 
but a step from the baked clay of the bank to the deck. I 
drifted by in the growing dark, and feigned to take no notice 
of her, though I was irresolutely inclined to accost her and to 
tell her that Pole was absent. 

I heard her shaking and knocking with an apparent in- 
creasing anger and insistence as I drifted beyond her, and 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


37 


then the sounds ceased, and she seemed to have resigned her 
attempt to enter, or to have made up her mind that the boat 
was really deserted. I kept away for fully an hour after this, 
and then returning and finding the coast clear, entered, lighted 
the lamp, and sat down to my usual evening’s work. At this 
time I was resolute to select and record whatever seemed best 
worth noting and remembering in the progress of the day — 
thoughts, impressions, descriptions, scraps of all sorts. I was 
engaged in this way and quite absorbed in my task, when the 
door was thrust suddenly and noisily open, and, turning a 
startled look that way, I saw the lady standing before me. 

She stared at me with a sort of haughty and angry- surprise, 
as though the chamber had belonged to her, and I had been 
an intruder. 

Where is Mr. Pole?” she asked me, curtly and disdain- 
fully. 

“ He has gone to town,” I answered. 

You heard me asking for him at the inn,” she said, with 
the same curt disdain of words and tone; ‘‘ why did you not 
tell me then that he was gone to town?” 

I beg your pardon,"” I answered. It did not occur to 
me.” 

It did not occur,” she said, in a voice of explanatory 
suavity, as if she addressed some third person. Then, ‘ ‘ I will 
wait until he returns."” 

She entered, closed the door behind her, and sat down. I 
made no objection to this, though I am afraid I showed no 
enthusiasm of welcome. She sat in silence, and when I made 
a motion to place the lamp nearer to her and to set a little 
heap of books beside her so that she might occupy herself, she 
waved me away contemptuously. Except for an occasional 
tapping of the foot upon the fioor, which bespoke either anger 
or impatience, she made no sound; and when I had offered one 
or two casual awkward observations and had received no more 
sign of heed or answer than if I had addressed a graven image, 
I also relapsed into silence. A half hour of excessive discom- 
fort — on my side, at least— went by, and then came the sound 
of a tuneful whistle which I knew for Pole’s. My companion 
recognized it also, and rising to her feet stood facing the door. 

A mere moment later Pole leaped on the deck and the ves- 
sel swayed faintly. Then the door opened, and I saw Pole’s 
face look in with its usual aspect of idle insoicciance. Under- 
lying that lazy, careless look there was always an expression of 
waiting courage, and I had always thought that Pole, if he 
were really awakened, would be an awkward enemy. His eyes 


38 


THE WEAKEE VESSEL. 


blazed into swift anger as he caught sight of the waiting figure, 
but he resumed his usual look almost at once. He stuck his 
hands into his pockets and nodded at me, presenting so com- 
plete a picture of his common self that I was more than half 
inclined to doubt my impression of a few seconds earlier. 

That you, Adelaide?'" he said. ‘‘ ITl walk to the railway 
station with you. WeTl talk as we go." 

She answered never a word, but followed him into the dark- 
ness. 


CHAPTER VI. 

When Pole came back again in the course of about an hour, 
he began to swing his hammock and otherwise to prepare for 
the night. Eor my own part, I had to pretend to be not in 
the least interested by his visitors, but I knew that my man- 
ner seemed odd and constrained, and my very desire that he 
should notice nothing seemed at last insistent and impertinent. 
I arranged my own hammock, and drew the curtain which 
separated us for the night across the chamber, but I had only 
just addressed myself to sleep when he drew it back again and 
addressed me. The gleam of his pipe shone in the darkness, 
and revealed his eyes and the tip of his nose by occasional 
glimpses. 

‘‘ Did that woman tell you anything, Denham?" he asked. 

‘‘ Nothing," I answered. “ She asked for you, and when I 
told her you had gone to town she said she would wait. " 

‘‘Was she here long before I came?" 

“ About half an hour." 

He was silent for a minute or two, but smoking furiously, 
as I could see through the darkness, by the alternate glow and 
fading of the pipe. 

“ 1 don't know why I shouldn't tell you," he said, at the 
end of this pause. “ You'll hold your tongue about it." 

“ If you want to tell me anything that you want kept secret 
it shall never be talked about." 

“ Very well. That's my wife." 

I think I was too astonished to reply. He was quiet for a 
time, and then he laughed oddly. 

“We were married four years ago. I remember tipping 
the pew-opener. She let off an old joke on me: ‘ You've tied 
a knot with your tongue that you can't undo with your 
teeth.'" 

He laughed again in the same odd way as before, and I made 
no answer. I did not see what could be said to be of service. 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 39 

My head whirled, and I thought of all sorts of ridiculous 
things, congratulations and condolences, but luckily none of 
them passed my lips. Pole said no more. I heard him lay his 
pipe down carefully, and I heard him settling himself in his 
hammock. Then I listened to the lap of the water on the boat 
and the stir and rustle of the leaves which hung above the 
roof, and the nibbling of a lonely rat who had his home in the 
well, and defied all our efforts to entrap him. I had never 
until then felt so dreary and unhappy in my life, and I lay 
awake the greater part of the night thinking of. Pole and pity- 
ing him, and wondering what the history might be. 

He was precisely like himself next morning, and preciaely 
like himself for many days afterward, and fora long time there 
was no more said between us. I thought then, and still think, 
that he took my silence as the most friendly and acceptable 
thing I had to offer, and that he liked me the better for it. 
On his side the revelation of an unhappy secret, and on my 
side the kno.wledge of it, seemed to draw us closer. But ^ 
seemed to desire that I should treat the revelation as if I had 
forgotten it, and with every day it grew to be less possible to 
speak of it. So between us we buried it for the time. 

If I have not conveyed a sufficing picture of the woman, my 
feeling about Pole^s union with her will seem exaggerated, 
unless indeed the feeling itself be translated into the picture, 
and is seen as a reasonable part of it. I have now lived twice 
the years I had then known, and have seen the world of men 
and women far and wide, but I have never met anything to 
equal the hate and pride and self -disdain of her face. “ I 
know you hate me. Well, I hate you, and despise you, and I 
hate myself and all. the world. The proud eyes, and the 
haggard, painted face said these things plainly, and never 
failed to say them in my imagination when I recalled her. A 
dreadful, hateful, ruined face. A woman to pity and avoid. 

Naturally enough she had not seemed so dreadful at first as 
she became when I knew of Pole’s connection with her. We 
pass people in the street every day with absolutely no feeling, 
who would inspire us with an awful terror and aversion if they 
were in any way wound about our own lives, or the lives of 
our friends. 

Then, naturally enough again, I began to regard my friend 
with different eyes, and with new light upon him began to see 
and to understand things which I had not hitherto noticed. His 
ordinary idle and tranquil ways deceived me no more, and I 
saw in him chiefly a settled determination not to be cast down. 
Being impelled to notice him as I was, I began to see also that 


40 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


his apparent ease of demeanor covered a good deal of shyness. 
His lounging air gave somehow an impression of complete 
coolness and savoir fair e, but this on closer knowledge of him 
became transparent. Perhaps in the warmth of my sympathy 
I exaggerated what I saw in him, but I began to think him 
far more sensitive, more retiring and sympathetic than a 
score of people I knew who more or less laid claim to these 
qualities, and I came to regard him as a man rather unusually 
prone to suffer, though uncommonly well able to conceal his 
pains. 

The regatta week came, the house-boat was towed up to 
Henley, and Mr. Goldsmith arrived with a great kit of the 
most amazing, glaring river costumes I ever yet beheld. Pole 
treated him with a remarkable coolness, and yet on more than 
one occasion I came upon them talking with great seriousness 
and an air of confidence. Their conversation always came to 
an immediate end with my appearance, and somehow, without 
knowing very precisely why, I associated Goldsmith with Pole^s 
unhappy union, and supposed that their talks together in some 
way related to it. 

There was no man on the river who was quite as aquatic in 
his aspect as Goldsmith, but he was the most useless of cock- 
neys in a boat. On the second day of the regatta he was mak- 
ing prodigious efforts to get out of the course, and was being 
obj urgated from a score of quarters at once, when he ran full 
tilt into a very handsome and delicate craft, in which were 
seated two ladies and a gentleman, the latter very jovial to 
look at, but short in temper as it proved. The handsome 
craft was lying immediately below our house-boat, and Pole, 
who had cast aside his usual quiet for the moment, was roar- 
ing unheeded instructions to the fat little Jew to back water 
and to look where he was going, and so on. The proprietor 
of the endangered craft was vainly striving to get past the 
ladies to break the shock of the advancing boat, when crash it 
came, started a plank or two, and threw the ladies and their 
companion into a struggling heap. The gentleman first 
emerged from the pile, and had a dreadful struggle with him- 
self not to say things which should prejudice him forever in 
the eyes of his companions. I knew so well the kind of relief 
for which his nature at that moment clamored, that I trembled 
for him. But in awhile he dared to give utterance to his feel- 
ings. 

“Go home, sir,^^ he said to the wretched Goldsmith. 
“ You have no business here; go home, sir.'^ 


THE WEAKEE VESSEL. 41 

He spoke with a very loud voice, and laid a tremendous em- 
phasis on the aspirate in “ home.^^ 

Goldsmith, who had bumped the back of his head on the 
bottom of the dinghy — he had a lump as large as a hen^s egg 
there half an hour later — murmured in confused apology. 

“ Go home, sir,^' shouted the other. “ Go home.^^ And 
not a word beyond that would the infuriate man trust liimself 
to utter. Go home, sir; go home.^^ 

Somehow the author of this disaster scrambled aboard the 
house-boat, and so drew upon Pole and myself -the attention 
of the crowd, and at the same time induced the sufferer to in- 
clude us with Goldsmith in a common condemnation. 

We went inside for a moment with Goldsmith, who was half 
stupid from the shock, and then Pole returned to the angry 
man and entered into speech with him. 

I hope the boat isn’t much injured,” I heard him say. 
“ If you’ll let me know the amount of the damage I will see 
that it is paid. ” 

“ Send him home, sir,” said the angry man, refusing at 
present to be mollified; send him home.” 

Sir,” said Pole, in suavest tones, “ he shall be sent. I 
hope the ladies are not hurt. ” 

The ladies replied that they were not hurt at all; but look- 
ing through the window, I was aware of one of them very rue- 
fully regarding a pretty straw hat which was crushed out of 
all shape. Pole sympathized very warmly, and I heard him 
insinuating that really after that shock a glass of wine — he 
must really be permitted. He must really be allowed to in- 
sist. He came into the boat, took a bottle of champagne 
which had been lying in ice for luncheon, gathered some 
glasses together, and went out again. I in the meantime was 
preparing vinegar and brown paper for Goldsmith, and doc- 
toring him as well as I could. He was dreadfully sulky, and 
when 1 had finished with him, I went outside and found Pole 
fraternizing with the three strangers, all politeness and regret 
for the accident, and solicitude for the ladies. The sufferer, 
all things considered, turned out an extremely amiable fel- 
low; and what between Pole’s soothing and the champagne, 
he came back to himself. He cast some piteous glances at 
the boat, which was new and of an expensive make, but he 
said no more until Pole, after an audible altercation with Gold- 
smith, brought the latter out to apologize, and to promise all 
reasonable compensation. But Goldsmith was unfortunate in 
his way of putting the thing, and the sufferer by his clumsi- 
ness was hard upon him. 


42 


THE WEAKER VESSEL 


‘‘ It is not a matter for apology, sir/’’ he said, or for com- 
pensation. You have no business here. You had. better take 
the advice I gave you, and go home. ” 

‘‘I’ve apologized,” said Goldsmith, half-way through his 
nose, “ and I’ve offered to pay; that’s all one gentleman can 
do for adother, and if the other ain’t reasonable about it, all 
I’ve got to say is he’s no gentleman.” 

Then there was an altercation in which I felt that I sounded 
the depths of shame, Mr. Goldsmith conducted himself so lit- 
tle to my fancy. It was^nded by Pole, who bundled the Jew 
into the interior of the boat. 

“We hired the thing from that fellow for the season,” he 
explained, evidently not caring any more than I did to be iden- 
tified with our companion. “ He made a point of coming up 
to Henley and I gave way. His breaking your boat was an 
accident. Perhaps the fact that he’s a blackguard may be 
accidental too.” 

There was an exchange of cards between Pole and the stran- 
ger, and then the damaged boat was rowed away. Pole 
marched, with every appearance of tranquillity, into the pres- 
ence of our guest and landlord, and began, with a quiet dog- 
matism which must have been painful and exasperating to 
Goldsmith, to express his opinion of him. 

“ You are really,” he said, “ a very horrid little person; and 
after your behavior of to-day I won’t have you about.” 

“ How could I help running into the man’s boat?” snarled 
Goldsmith. The cunning, smiling, self-app roving little man 
was all changed, and he ruffled and swellefj, and grew red 
about the head like a turkey-cock. 

“ You could have helped using bad language before ladies,” 
said Pole. 

“No, I couldn’t,” said Goldsmith, who was ready to con- 
tradict anything. 

“ That is a trifie worse than ever,” said Pole. “ The man 
who can not help using bad language before ladies is a man to 
be avoided. I must ask you to go.” 

“ I won’t go,” the little man almost shrieked. “ It’s my 
boat. I’ll stop.” 

“ If you are not gone in half an hour,” Pole responded, “ I 
shall drop you overboard. I have spoken.” 

At that we returned to the deck, and in a little while Gold- 
smith began to pack up his effects. He interrupted himself 
to come out and address us. He said it was part of the bar- 
gain he had made that he was to have a week at Henley. He 
had but three days, and he demanded a guinea a day for four 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


43 


days more. He added that he thought the request was mod- 
erate. 

Pole counted out four pounds four shillings and dropped the 
money in his hand. He took it with no evidence of shame, 
and went in-doors to continue his packing. But by and by he 
was back again, blazing. 

“ Look here,-’^ he began, ‘^you^re taking a very high and 
mighty air with me, Mr. Pole, but I’ll be even with you. I 
know a thing or two that you don’t think I know, and I’ll 
spoil your game, as sure as I’m alive. It wasn’t in my line to 
denounce anybody, let alone a customer, but I’ll spoil your 
game as sure as I’m alive. Oh, you needn’t stare at me! I 
ain’t afraid of you. I haven’t got to do the think myself. 
I’ve only got to put the missis on to you. She’ll jolly sharp 
put a stopper on you, see if she don’t. You go fooling about 
with Miss Helamere any more — ” 

Pole had been lolling against the door-post, regarding the 
man with a look of complete indifference up to this, but here 
he darted at him, and before another word was spoken, and 
before I could intervene. Goldsmith was splashing in the water. 
He came up screaming and spouting, and swam to land, and, 
standing on the bank, threatened Pole in a most horrible man- 
ner, stamping and spluttering with rage. All eyes were turned, 
and all necks were craned to see what was the matter. Pole 
pushed me in-doors and followed, closing the door behind him, 
and when the Jew had screamed his fill and had gathered an 
eager and excited crowd, he was moved away. A man came, 
half an hour later, from one of the hotels, asking for his bag- 
gage. 

“ I think,” said Pole, observing that a considerable number 
of people still seemed to linger near us, and to find us interest- 
ing and curious, “ I have had enough of publicity for to-day. 
I shall go up to chambers. Will you come?” 

I assented willingly, and we went away together. Neither 
he nor I made anj allqsion to, the quarrel, but it dwelt in my 
mind heavily, afid I was unable to forget it. We went to a 
concert in the evening, but I heard little of the music, and 
was wondering, whether I would or no, what the Jew’s sayings 
might mean. Later on, in my room, Pole opened his mind a 
little, but not much. 

“ I shall have some trouble over that fellow,” he said, after 
guarding silence for a full hour. “ He’s a solicitor and money- 
lender, and his father did some business for my wife before 
we married, and seemed really to have behaved kindly to her. 
When we two had to go our separate ways I wanted somebody 


44 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


to stand between us, and make her the necessary payments, 
and so forth. I went to look for the old man and found the 
young one. He did as well as an 5 ^body. The old man is dead 
and the young one has the business. Then my wife is one of 
their own people. I shall have to find somebody else, I sup- 
pose. I dare say you wondered why I had him down at Hen- 
ley?^ ^ 

I did — a little — I confessed. 

“ He has a curious influence with my wife. He can kee;p 
her quiet when nobody else can. 1 thought she might find us 
out at a place like- Henley. I didnT want a scene. He was 
to have looked out for her. It^s a melancholy sort of business, 
isnT it?^’ he asked, as if he were merely tired. 

I thought it very melancholy indeed, and answered so. 

“ Well,"^ he said, shrugging his shoulders, “ Pve made my 
bed, and I must lie on it. It’s all in the day’s work. Good- 
night, old chap.” 

He would confess to nothing, would make no show, but I 
thought how heart-sore he must be, and was profoundly sorry 
for him, not for the last time. But whether I would have it 
there or no, I could not get Miss Delamere’s name out of my 
head, and my mind strayed here and there in fruitless con- 
jecture. But I could think no ill of Pole, and certainly I 
could think no ill of the one Miss Delamere 1 knew. My 
dreams defied me, and I saw Pole leading Miss Delamere to the 
altar, and I saw the Jew pounce- out from behind one pillar of 
the building while Pole’s wife pounced out from behind an- 
other, crying out so shrilly that they awoke me. 

After that I lay awake the greater part of the night, won- 
dering if Pole had fallen in love with Miss Delamere in his 
unhappy loneliness, and if that were the reason of his avoid- 
ance of her. 


CHAPTER VII. 

About three weeks after the events just related, when we 
had got our floating residence back into its old quarters, there 
came up the river, one lovely tranquil morning, a fussy and 
important steam-launch, with a dozen ladies and gentlemen 
aboard, and a bright-striped awning of pink and white and 
blue, which shone very prettily and gayiy in the sunshine. 
Pole and I were waiting to enter the lock when this vessel 
came screaming along to signal to the lock-keeper, and we 
were still there when she came up. She halted alongside our 
quieter and less imposing craft, and when the wet gates swung 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 45 

slowly Open and we passed into the shadow and cool between 
the gleaming walls, she glided slowly after us. 

We were just beginning to float upward when a female voice 
said, speaking above us: “ Good-morning, Mr. Pole,^^ and 
looking up, I was aware of a white-haired elderly lady who was 
bending over the rail of the launch and smiling downward. 
Pole snatched off his cap and smiled back again, and was ex- 
changing greetings with her when no less a person than Sebas- 
tian Dolmer Jones appeared beside her,, and waved a friendly 
hand to both of us. 

“ This is lucky,^’ said Jones, we are two men short. Come 
on board. We are going as far as Pangbourne. Leave your 
boat here. You can call for it on your way back. We are 
going to have a jolly day and leave dull care behind us.^^ 

“ Pray come, Mr. Pole,^" said the elderly lady. “ We are 
lamentably short of gentlemen.'’^ 

Then two or three other people whom Pole knew, but who 
were strange to me, joined very cordially in this invitation, 
and we had just confessed that we had nothing particular to 
do, and were not bound especially anywhere, when Mr. Dela- 
mere and his daughter, neither of whom had come within our 
range of vision, appeared also. Mr. Delamere blessed us, as 
it were, from his superior height, and said : 

“ Glad to see you, Pole. Glad to see you. Glad to see you, 
Denham. Glad to see you. Come on board, by all means. 
By all means, come on board. 

As if he waived all possible objections which somebody was 
going to offer to our society, and were quite resolved not to 
hear them spoken of. It was, of course, too late to hesitate, 
and so we went on board, though I did so with mixed feelings. 
Pole shook hands with Mr. Delamere with rather a chill polite- 
ness, 1 thought; but then I was looking out for that, and I 
dare say that nobody else noticed it. I had not time for the 
moment to remark anything further. Mr. Jones took me 
round and told me people’s names, and told people my name, 
in that pleasant and simple fashion which then obtained. The 
old fashion had at least the merit of preventing nervous young 
men and women, who thought they must be entertaining, from 
saying smart thipgs to the wrong people and about the wrong 
people. 

Then I had to give instructions to the lock-keeper about the 
boat, and when this was done we all steamed away together up 
the sunny river, and I had time to look about me and see what 
manner of people I had fallen among. They all seemed agree- 
able and amiable and bent upon enjoying themselves, and. 


46 


THE WEAiCER VESSEL. 


with the exception of Mr. Delamere and the lady who had first 
accosted Pole, the party was entirely composed of young and 
youngish people. 

Miss Delamere was talking to Pole, and he was answering 
her in a manner to dissipate any fancies of romance between 
them. 

‘‘You have developed a very unlooked-for characteristic, 
Mr. Pole,^^ she said, with that air of harmless impudence 
which we all think so charming in a beautiful girl. “ You 
grow retiring. 

“ Grow?'" answered Pole, with equal lightness and gayety 
of demeanor. “ I am grown. Denham and I are hermits. 
We are a sort of double Diogenes. You passed our tub a 
quarter of a mile below the lock." 

“ Is your choice of the life final?" she asked him, smilingly. 
“ Are your friends never to see you again?" 

“We have forgotten the world," he answered, with a slight 
humorous exaggeration of tone, “ and supposed ourselves for- 
gotten by it. Perhaps when nature grows unkind we may be 
driven back to the world we have abjured. I don't know yet 
how strong we are." 

“ Nature* at her severest did not drive you our way in the 
winter-time," she said, smiling and nodding her head at him. 

Pole's gayety failed him for a mere second, and he blushed 
and looked guilty. 

“ Now, Mr. Denham," said Miss Delamere, withdrawing 
her attack on Pole in what I thought a very ready and grace- 
ful way — though it was my habit by this time to think very 
highly of this young lady and of all she might do — “ Mr. 
Denham . has been ‘delightfully regular. You, I trust," ad- 
dressing me directly, “ are not going to turn permanent iier- 
mit." 

I thought not, looking at the bright eyes and beautiful face. 
Not the presence of all the Dolmer Joneses and elderly male 
Delameres in the world could rob a room of its charm while 
that delightful countenance decorated it. I left these refiec- 
tions unspoken, but I assured her that I had no intention of 
turning hermit at all — that on the whole T was rather fond of 
the world and thought it an agreeable sort of place. 

“ When I was little," said Miss Delamere, “ I was told that 
it was very stimulating to virtue to let it be plainly seen and 
known that people were expected to be good. You are ex- 
pected to be very good to-day, Mr. Pole." 

“ I will try," he answered, “ to make the expectation 
stimulating. In point of fact, I will be good." 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


47 


He did in effect become exceedingly bright and gay, and 
was spoken of as being a great acquisition. There is always at 
a picnic somebody who is described as being the life and soul 
of the party, and Pole set all the young people chaffing and 
laughing so successfully that before the day was over that title 
was his by common consent. Mr. Delamere^s high-bred and 
lofty quiet would have sat a little heavily on some of us, I 
fancy, had it not been for his detestor^s presence. Only every 
now and again, to my mind, Pole seemed to flag and to go un- 
usually gloomy. It needed but a word to bring him back to 
his air of gayety, and he said a hundred bright things, not of 
the sort which are worth keeping, and will sparkle in any set- 
ting, but of the smaller sort which make people laugh when 
they are disposed to laughter, but might seem, perhaps, a lit- 
tle poor and commonplace if they were recorded. They were 
Paris brilliants perhaps, but then they made no pretense of 
being Koh-i-noors, and in that sunlight of youth and high 
spirits and summer holiday they sparkled, as I remember, very 
brightly. This was a new side of him to me, and the sight of 
it set me thinking very gravely once or twice how very happy 
and handsome and genial he might have been if that dark 
chapter of his life I knew of had never been written. 

After luncheon there was displayed a tendency which I had 
remarked before, and have since observed at such gatherings 
— a tendency, namely, to get into couples, and to wander away 
from the center. Pole and Miss Delamere were companions, 
and for my own part I was attracted by hap-hazard to the so- 
ciety of a certain Miss Clara Grantley, in speaking of whom I 
shall have to be careful, since the lady^s eye will assuredly rest 
upon these pages, and her introduction to this narrative is 
already expected. She was, then, the most charming young 
person of her sex whom I had yet had the pleasure of behold- 
ing. I established my own discernment by almost immediately 
falling in love with her, and I shall remember that sunlit 
river and those happy fields as long as I remember anything. 
She was only eighteen and I was barely half a dozen years 
oldei% so that we were both very young, and we were both cer- 
tainly very shy. Shyness is less the fashion among young 
jDeople than it used to be, I fancy. 

I remember that at first we talked mostly about Pole, and 
that I spoke very highly of him. She told me that a brother 
of hers, then in India, had been at school with Pole, and was 
very fond of him. I answered that everybody must be; and 
so, with Pole as a kind of conversational walking-stick, we 
began to get along together very nicely. It dawned upon me 


48 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


at moments that the youog lady was very pretty, and I had 
the sense to think myself a lucky dog in having secured a 
partner in all ways so agreeable. She had blue-gray eyes and 
hair of a golden-yellowish hue, a beauty which has grown 
much more common than it used to be before the chemist 
came in and invented an auricomous hair-wash. 1 do not be- 
lieve that in those ancient days that delusive compound had 
been invented — ladies should be told that we of the other sex 
are always able to distinguish art from nature in that particu- 
lar — and even if it had been, my companion was one of the 
people who are favored by nature with the best of all possible 
reasons for not using it. She had a very fair complexion and 
a freckle or two, which to my thinking made the fairness 
prettier to look at. I shall abide by the freckles, whatever 
editorial revision may be attempted. I remember them dis- 
tinctly. 

This charming young person had a mother who was some- 
thing of an invalid, and was in the country for her health. 
They were great friends of the Delameres; and Mrs. Delamere 
(who had been dead for many years) and mamma had been 
school-girls together. So now the charming young person was 
staying in the Delameres^ house, and Miss Delamere had care 
of her. She did not seem very much to like Mr. Delamere, 
which, in its way, was a sort of bond of union between us, and 
she said she did not think Jones was very nice, which was in- 
disputably another. She had some awe of Delamere, whom 
she regarded as being supernaturally learned and clever, but 
she thought he^jindervalued the other kinds of learning and 
cleverness which other people had. Jones and he seemed to 
be very great friends indeed, and Jones was a great deal about 
the house; in fact, he almost lived there. Her tone seemed to 
express something of a regret for this fact; at least I so con- 
strued it, and it soothed me. I should have been disappointed 
in a girl otherwise so charming if she had liked Jones. 

We strolled about that beautiful afternoon, and I sculled 
her about the river, where she was at first a little timid, 
though she soon grew accustomed and fearless, and became in- 
terested in learning to steer. I should have been an egregious 
young coxcomb if I had at this time even begun to have a 
notion of what was really happening to me, but I took the 
fever naturally, and at first kindly. There never had been 
surely so charming a companion. There never had been such 
a pretty girl. And so far that was all. 

Now I myself am, if I may be forgiven for mentioning the 
fact, a swarthy man, of a muddy complexion, and, as old ex- 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


49 


perience proves, therefore all the likelier to find blue-gray eyes 
and yellowish hair and rosy cheeks — not peony, if you please, 
but rosy, the most delicate, wholesome rose-leaf bloom in the 
world— -I was all the more likely, I say, to find these charms 
attractive and supreme. And then, of course, I admired the 
shy, geiitle, sweet nature, and the arch, timid face, and had 
never known, anything so delightful. And whether you like 
to believe it or not, madame, for whose especial behoof this 
page is, and one or two that have preceded it are, written, 1 
had never fallen in love before. That is, in any way worth 
speaking of. 

We found in awhile two others of our party on the bank, 
but whether they preferred solitude or were too benevolent to 
spoil our enjoyment, they declined our hypocritical invitation 
to join us, and strolled away among the trees; and, like the 
Ancient Mariner with the water-snakes, I blessed them un- 
aware. 

It was altogether a day to remember, but it faded, as all 
days will. The steam-whistles sounded, and we all assembled 
at the launch, and went away down stream again. 1 hoped 
with all my heart all the time that Miss Delamere would give 
me an invitation, and I was, I am afraid, very ingratiatory 
with her. She gladdened me by doing what I wanted very 
kindly and graciously. So pretty a girl, and so charming a 
companion! I wanted to see as much of that beauty as I 
could, and to have more of that charming companionship. 

At the lock where we had met them all we took leave of 
them. A mile or two further down stream they would betake 
themselves to the rail, and so back to town and dinner. Pole 
and I, perched on the lock-gate, waved farewell with our (!aps 
so long as we could see the flutter of the departing handker- 
chiefs. There had been a jolly affectation of heart-break be- 
tween Pole and the old lady at losing one another, and it was 
because of this that the signals of good-bye were thus pro- 
longed. 

While we were still waving and smiling we turned to look at 
each other, and waved and smiled no more. We both went 
mighty solemn with a ludicrous suddenness. When we looked 
at each other next we laughed, but oh! we were serious after- 
ward. We pulled down to our aquatic residence, and went 
gloomily about our business of cooking and eating. The pleas- 
ant day was over. 

We lighted our pipes and sat in the twilight, while the land 
grew duskier and duskier, and the stars grew brighter and 
brighter. And one of us was filled with I donT know how 


50 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


many hopes and projects and fancies. There was the magic 
caldron which Youth, Health, Hope & Oo. will lend to any- 
body, and all the projects and fancies bubbling in it, and I 
watching for the projection, and the consequent wonderful 
wild-fowl. And here was the other of us looking at the magic 
caldron cracked and dry, and beyond refilling or mending. 
Strange how near we can be to one another and how far away! 


CHAPTER VIIl. 

A DAY or two later, when I told Pole that I had received an 
invitation to Cromwell Terrace, he' made no answer beyond 
that which might be conveyed in an enigmatical grunt. But 
a week further on, when I went up to chambers, he accom- 
panied me, and in the evening, somewhere about ten o’clock, 
just as I was about to set off, he turned up, dressed, and an- 
nounced that he was going with me. I was very glad to have 
him, and 1 supposed that, after the day on the launch, he had 
made up his mind that Delamere’s society, was bearable, and 
had effected his peace with Delamere’s daughter. 

The house was crowded, and there was the greatest difficulty 
in getting about. There had been a highly select and distin- 
guished dinner-party, and now there was such a cram as, in 
my limited experience, I had not seen. The stairs were full, 
the conservatory half-way up was full, the landings were full, 
and the rooms were only a thought less crowded. Pretty Miss 
Grantley was talking to a bald-headed old gentleman in the 
very last corner I came to, and she gave nie a blush and a 
smile of recognition when she caught sight of me. The cor- 
ner was defended — barricaded, as it were — by two big china 
jars, of the shape of a cask, and a capacity, as I should judge, 
of some twelve gallons^ One of these made a sufficiently com- 
fortable seat; and when the old gentleman (who may have had 
the surprising good sense to think that a couple of young peo- 
ple who greeted each other blushing and smiling might be as 
happy without him as with him) — when the old gentleman had 
withdrawn through a momentary crack jn the crowd, I took 
the seat he had vacated, and entered into talk about the water- 
party of a little while ago, and other matters of equal interest 
and moment. 

This, of course, was all very delightful, but was not allowed 
to last. I felt a hand laid upon my shoulder, and looking up 
saw the venerable Dr. Fish beside me beaming through his 
gold-rimmed glasses. He shuffled into our corner, and with 
no doubt the most benevolent intentions, he stayed there and 


thj: weaker vessel. 


61 


talked until Miss Grantley slipped away. Then I, not daring 
to follow, and being held by this nice old man by the lapel of 
the coat while I thought unutterable things of him, sat there 
in silent torture for a time and answered, I fear, very much at 
random. But by and by he interested me. 

“ I see Pole here ag^n,^^ he said. I am glad to see him 
here. ‘You will meet people here, Denham, who will improve 
your mind. Pole is looking very well. You and he are great 
companions, I believe 

‘‘ Oh, yes,^^ I answered, “ we are great friends. 

‘‘ I am very glad of that,^^ he went on. “ Of course no 
honest man will choose his friends because they are rich and 
influential; but wealth and influence are valuable things, and 
rightly dsed, you know, Denham, rightly used — 

He rubbed his hands and looked seriously and sagely at me. 

I had not known that Pole^s wealth, or his influence either, 
was at all beyond the common, and I said as much; but the 
doctor broke in eagerly. 

‘ ^ My dear . young sir, don't you know that there is but a 
single life between him and the title? You didn't know? 
Dear me! It's quite a vast fortune — really an exceptional 
thing! You didn't know that? Dear me! How reticent 
your friend must be!" 

I admitted that my friend was reticent; but I urged that 
human life was a somewhat uncertain thing to build calcula- 
tions upon, and that Pole was about the last man I knew to 
speculate upon it. 

“ Oh, dear, dear, no," said Dr. Fish, shaking his head with 
a mournful look; there is no such extreme element of un- 
certainty as you imagine, Mr. Denham. The remaining life 
is dreadfully frail; the poor fellow is hardly expected to last a 
year — they're moving him to the Eiviera now, 1 believe." 

This was news certainly, but I was not in the least degree 
surprised that Pole had said nothing of it. I thought it in- 
deed most natural in him to be silent. 

It helped to make him more of a personage in my eyes, but 
not as I fancy the good old doctor meant it to do. It seemed 
certainly to make his position the more pitiable, though this 
was assuredly to take a most unjust and foolish view of things, 
for to be weal thy and to hold a place of high consideration in 
the world are at least among the aids to happiness. But the 
promise of wealth and rank seemed to emphasize his trouble. 
The smile of fortune's sunshine did but throw the shade into 
more somber relief. I did not ask whether it would do so for 
him; it did it for me in my conception of him. 


THE WEAKER YESSELi 


b2 

I learned that the owner of the life which stood between Pole 
and the title was a cousin Eeginald of his, who had been always 
reckoned feeble. This Keginald^s father had been dead but a 
few mouths. He was a stalwart man of middle age, and when 
he came to his end by an accident in the hunting-field had been 
upon the eve of a second marriage.*^ Three years earlier, the 
doctor told me, no man would have given a shilling for Pole^s 
chance, but four sound lives had fallen unexpectedly away, and 
now there was nobody left but this cousin, who had been bred 
as a stranger to him. 

When 1 had time to think of it, I liked Pole the better for 
not having spoken to me of this matter. It argued a certain 
delicacy in him to be silent. 1 knew, and I still know, a great 
many men who would have been loud about it, and would have 
basked in their glories beforehand, whose feet would have 
itched for the feeble man’s shoes. 

The doctor found me cut later that evening, and told me 
that he had heard news of Reginald Pole. There was little 
hope for him. The doctors had decided that he should go 
southward, but by very easy stages, and the hand of death, so 
the old gentleman said impressively, seemed on the poor boy 
already. 

“ Delamere told me of it,^^ said Dr. Fish. He had spoken 
of the poor lad who had come so near to high fortune and was 
now slipping away from it into an early grave with becoming 
solemnity; but here, at the mention of Delamere, he began to 
twinkle. Our host,’^ he said, ‘‘ will be glad to see Pole back 
again now, 1 fancy. I hardly know how it came about; but 
I fancy they took a dislike to each other. But Delamere wonT 
throw away a chance like that. Of course Delamere^s a very 
high-minded man and so forth, and has a very lofty idea of 
life, but I suppose he has no objection to seeing Miss Delamere 
well settled. He is distinctly more amiable to Pole than he 
used to be. That is how the world goes, my young friend. 
Do well, thrive, get on in the world, and you will find people 
agreeable to you.'’^ 

He went on, eminently well satisfied with himself, and I 
listened in a sort of stupor. That awful marriage of Pole’s 
was a secret. Nobody knew of it who knew him well. 

“ I am getting elderly,’^ said the babbling and indiscreet 
divine, who was certainly old enough to have known better 
than to take so close an interest as he did in other people^s 
affairs, 1 thought. ‘*I am elderly, but I feel an interest in 
youth. I am looking on at a good many things with a great 
deal of pleasure. Do me the credit to remember this enigmat- 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


53 


ical utterance in a year or two^s time, Denham, and ask me 
what I meant by it/^ 

“ I think I know what you mean, sir,^’ I returned. 

“ Do you?^ ’ he asked, nodding his benevolent bald head and 
smiling. Ah! you^re a friend of his. Exactly.'’^ 

“ I think you are altogether wrong, sir,"*^ 1 said; “ I am 
sure you are altogether wrong. Pray do not spread any idea 
of that kind. 

“Pooh, pooh!’'’ responded the doctor. “1 have known 
them both for years. I have seen it growing on both sides.” 

I spoke before 1 knew it, and the doctor stared at me. 

“I hope not; oh, I hope not.” 

“ Dear me,” he said, in some confusion. “ Let us change 
the theme.” He took me very kindly and confidentially by 
the arm, and gave his grip a little friendly pressure. “ I beg 
your pardon, my boy, I beg your pardon. 1 am a foolish, in- 
discreet old fellow. There, there, let us say no more; let us 
say no more.” 

I thought it best to leave him to any fancy he might form. 
The question was dangerous. If he chose to think that I was 
in love with Miss Delamere, it mattered little; and since he 
was so ready to leap at conclusions, it was likely that his sus- 
picions about Pole to the same effect were as well founded as 
they were of me. I am inclined to think — if 1 may take ad- 
vantage of the liberty this narrative affords me — that 1 was 
rather an unusual young man in some respects, and that I took 
rather unusually serious views of things. But the idea of Pole 
and Miss Delamere really growing to care for each other with 
that insuperable barrier between them was terrible. 

There was never the faintest little doubt of Pole’s honor in 
my mind. If there had been a reasonable ground for think- 
ing that Miss Delamere had had a fancy concerning him, such 
as an innocent girl might not have about a man who was 
already married, I believed that he would have cut his hand 
off, or burned it in the fire, rather than encourage it to her 
damage. I had so lofty a belief in his honor, and made him 
so much of a hero in my mind, that any thought of careless- 
ness in this regard in him was outside my conjectures. And 
as for mere coxscombry, I was a very much smaller creature 
than Pole, and even I despised it. What was he likely to feel 
about it? 

Now if anybody thinks that the pressure of these reflections 
kept me for more than ten minutes at the outside from seek- 
ing anew the charming society of Miss Clara Grantley, he gives 
me credit for an unselfishness of friendship to which I lay no 


54 


THE WEAKEE VESSEL. 


claim. Pole^s affairs interested me very deeply, and I was 
growing more and more attached to him, but I was not quite 
shut out from the contemplation of my own affairs. 

The crowd was not so dense as it had been, and I was able 
to make my way about the rooms without so much of diplo- 
matic effort as 1 had been compelled to exert earlier in the 
evening. As 1 moved about looking for Miss Grantley, 1 saw 
Pole in conversation with our hostess. Miss Delamere sum- 
moned me by a smile and a wave of her fan, and I joined them 
for a few minutes. There was nothing very noticeable in their 
talk, and certainly nothing in their bearing toward each other 
which would indicate more than the merest amiable acquaint- 
anceship. 

I succeeded in finding Miss Grantley — there is a pleasure in 
using that obsolete form — and I fell more pronouncedly and 
decidedly in love with every minute spent in her society. It 
was all pleasant, all charming as yet, and I had not the 
slightest intention to struggle against the infiuence which was 
stealing over me. Time came when 1 got into a state of mind 
no less than dreadful, and could not eat my meals. 

Pole and I walked home together. We started in starlight, 
but before we got home the sky was light above us, and its 
ethereal blue was lined with beautiful faint streaks of rose. 
We talked a great deal as we walked, and one thing that Pole 
said 1 recalled many and many a time afterward. 

The best way with danger is to treat it as if you did not 
believe in it."’’ i 

‘‘If a man aimed a pistol at your head, you ^d dodge, 
wouldnT you?'^ T asked him; “or strike up the weapon, or 
behave in some way, as if you believed in the danger 

“ Exactly/ "" he said; “ there is no saying so wise that you 
canT make it look foolish by a question of that sort. But I’m 
not talking of pistols, though even there you may come to 
grief if you believe too much in danger. Come along, my 
Denham. Shoulders square. Head well up. March! And 
your blood-curdling fever is fiown ten miles away.” 

He clapped me on the shoulder, and we turned into the 
court-yard together at that instant. 

“ All the same,” I said, “ it isn’t good counsel for every- 
body. There are some whose nerves might fail at the pinch, 
and for them it might be safest to treat danger as if they be- 
lieved in it very earnestly. Spare the weaker vessel. Don’t 
tow her into action too desperately.” 

He turned to look at me as if he souglit to read some special 
meaning in my words, and knowing that his eyes were upon 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


55 


me I felt confused. I had not meant it so, but remembering 
Dr. Fishes talk, it flashed upon me that Pole might accept my 
chance simile as an impertinent warning. The more I blushed 
the more he looked at me, and the more he looked the more 
confused I felt. 

“ What did you mean by that?^^ he asked. 

“ Nothing I said; ‘^absolutely nothing when 1 said it. 
But you seemed to find a meaning in it.^' 

“ And so you find a meaning in it, too, eh?’"’ 

I made some gesture with my hands to signify that the thing 
was not worth thinking of, and stammered something to that 
effect. 

“ Come inside,^^ he said; “ let us have a talk about this.’^ 


CHAPTER IX. 

I w^EKT upstairs to Pole’s chamber feeling guilty and 
ashamed, though 1 was altogether innocent. He lighted the 
gas — for the dawn without had not yet found its way into his 
chambers — took off his overcoat, chose a cigar, and seated 
himself, all with quiet deliberation, and then spoke. 

“ My finding a meaning seemed to help you to find a mean- 
ing. That is — if I found one. Let us have it out, John.” 

It was by no means easy to have it out. 

“My dear Pole,” I said, “I meant nothing whatever be- 
yond the plain sense of the words 1 used. ” 

“ Quite so,” he answered. “ You won’t think so ill of me 
as to fancy I’m angry because you have your own thoughts 
about me. But I want to know what they are.” 

“ Well,” I told him, after a moment’s uneasy thinking, 
‘ ‘ the best thing for you to do will be to ask me exactly what 
you want to know, and I will answer you quite honestly.” 

“ You asked me — innocently and as a mere figure of speech 
— not to tow the weaker vessel into danger. Then, on my 
looking at you, you identified the weaker vessel so clearly that 
you seemed to yourself to have been guilty, of an imperti- 
nence. ” 

“ That is exactly what happened.” I was grateful to him 
for translating me so perfectly. 

“ Have you yourself noticed anything that would lead you 
to suppose that I was towing anybody into danger?” 

There was a slight flush upon his face, and I could see that 
it was difficult for him to ask the question. 

“ I have noticed nothing that would lead me to that 
opinion/’ I answered. 


56 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


‘‘ Then the idea has been put into your head by somebody 
else?^^ 

“ May I ask who the somebody is?’’ 

“ I would rather not say. It was said in perfect friendship, 
and in something very like congratulation.” 

‘‘ And you believed it?” he asked. 

‘‘No. 1 can’t say I believed it. I had seen nothing to 

justify me in believing it.” 

“I suppose it was Fish who spoke to you of it? Never 
mind. Don’t answer if you don’t care to. He is not the wisest 
of mankind, but he is a very good old foolish sort of fellow, 
and loves to chatter. You and I are getting to be very close 
friends, and 1 can say things to you that I can’t say to any- 
body else. I left off visiting at Delamere’s house not in the 
least degree because I disliked the man, though I do dislike 
him very heartily, but because I thought I was getting into 
danger. I went back again because, after a good deal of 
thinking about it, I came to the conclusion that I was not 
likely to get into danger. There is the whole story.” 

There was one side of the story, I thought; Hut I said noth- 
ing. A man would have to come to something of an extremity 
in coxscombry before he would hide himself from the society 
of women he cared for lest they should fall hopelessly in love 
with him. Pole was as little likely to be’ affected in that, way 
as anybody I could call to mind, and as for the old doctor, 
with his statement that he had seen affection growing bn both 
sides, I declined to value him at all. I had seen Miss Dela- 
mere and Pole together twice, had noticed pretty closely, and 
was quite sure that she at least was heart-whole. I had been 
determined to be sure of it, but could really find nothing in 
the world to contradict my surety. 

“ 1 dare say,” Pole went on, after a pause, “ that you are 
still ill the land of romance, John. I left it some time ago. I 
was kicked out of it, and am in no hurry to pass its borders 
again. Perhaps I might like to go back, to speak plain truth, 
if there were any chance of doing it. But the fox was wise 
after all, and when the grapes are out of reach, one can’t do 
better than think them sour. When you have been flung 
down-stairs and have had the door slammed behind you, it’s 
sensible to believe that you don’t want the entree to the estab- 
lishment. ” 

The dawn was broadening now, and the gas-lamp had taken 
a sickly tinge. He rose and turned out the light, and threw 
the window open and leaned out. A solitary footstep which 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


57 


had sounded dimly until then struck sharply on the ear. A 
key tapped smartly upon the iron bars of the gate which sepa- 
rated the court from the inn, and I heard the door of the 
porter’s box open, and the porter’s yawn. I got up and stood 
by Pole’s side, and looked down into the court-yard. A little 
old gentleman in black was standing at the gate, and the 
porter was in*the act of unlocking it. The gate swung open, 
and the little old gentleman looked up casually as he started 
to pass through. He paused with a startled air and spoke. 

“ May I step up to your rooms for a moment, Mr. Pole?” 

“ Certainly, sir,” Pole answered, and the old gentleman en- 
tered briskly at the open door below. Pole threw open his own 
door to receive him, and he came briskly up the stairs. 

‘‘ i had certainly not expected to find you awake at such an 
hour,” he said, “ but I looked up at your chambers in passing 
because you were in my mind. I have just come from the 
death-bed of your poor cousin Eeginald.” 

“ His death-bed?” Pole asked, in a voice which sounded 
awe-struck. 

“His death-bed, ” the old gentleman answered. ‘ ' Lord W or- 
borough and other relatives were already in town, intending to 
see him off this morning to the Eiviera. He v/as seized with 
a terrible, fit of coughing, and broke a blood-vessel at two 
o’clock yesterday afternoon. Everything was done that could 
be done, but he died half an hour ago.” 

Pole looked round at me very seriously, and then looked 
back to his visitor, but said nothing. 

“1 do not know if I am personally known to you, Mr. 
Pole?” the visitor went on, interrogatively. Pole shook his 
head. “ Allow me to offer you my card. 1 am Lord Wor- 
borough’s solicitor. ” Pole took the card, and having glanced 
at it, laid it quietly upon the table. “ I was charged to carry 
to you the melancholy intelligence, and to express to you his 
lordship’s desire to meet you at your earliest convenience. 1 
think,” he said, hesitatingly, “ that you are not as yet known 
to each other?” 

“ I have never met Lord Worborough,” Pole answered. His 
voice and face were still very solemn, and, though he was not 
in any way shaken by the tidings, it was evident that they 
moved him deeply. 

“ His lordship will himself write to you to-morrow, and you 
will, of course, attend the funeral.” 

“ Of course, Mr. Fairfield,” said Pole, again glancing at the 
card beside him. 

“ I would not have intruded at this hour,” said the solicitor. 


58 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


but for the accident of seeing you at the window. I do not 
think I have anything more to say at present, but I will ask 
you for an interview to-morrow. At what hour may I call?^'’ 

Pole gave him an appointment at noon, the two then shook 
hands; and Mr. Fairfield, with a slight bow to me, took his 
leave and went briskly down the stairs. My friend and I sat 
down facing each other, and for awhile neither of us spoke. 
Pole was the first to break silence. 

“ This is a strange thing to have happened,’^ he said. I 
hardly knew the poor fellow, and his dying — if I should live a 
year or two longer — makes me rich, I donT know how rich, 
and gives me a title. Poor fellow He pulled thoughtfully 
at his cigar, and went on talking. “ I used to have dreams 
when I was a boy of being great and rich. I had a sort of 
fanciful notion that I should meet somebody one day who 
would tell me that I had been reared for my own good under 
false pretenses, and. that I was duke or prince of something 
somewhere. 1 was to have passed my probation and have 
come out triumphant, and then the truth was to come as my 
reward. He got up and threw the cigar into the court-yard, 
and then closed the window. Then he fell to walking up and 
down with his hands in his pockets. IVe passed my proba- 
tion and come out a failure, and beret’s the announcement. 
Poor Peggy! I^d rather heM have lived. I feel as if Fate 
were having a satiric grin at me. ‘ Here you are, my boy. 
YouVe thrown away all the chances you had , to start with, 
and now here^s the biggest prize in the basket for you. There 
are thousands who^d jump at it, and it^s no good to you. 
Take it!^ 

“ You donT deserve that you should say these things of 
yourself or think them,^"^ I replied. “ You are not answera- 
ble for your troubles. 

‘‘ I donT know,^^ he resumed, still walking up and down. 
“ I believe I knew as well at the time as I know it now that I 
was marrying a woman who could make no man happy. 
There^s a kind of sane madness, Denham, which some men 
suffer from. I knew I wasn^t going to be happy. I more 
than guessed that I was going to wreck myself. I didnT even 
particularly care for her, but I felt myself bound in honor, and 
I married her. Well, it^s of no use to talk, and I know that 
also. 1 haverPt bored anybody else with it. You Ye the only 
man I ever opened my lips to.^^ 

He would not say, of course he would not say, what this 
meant, but I knew it. I had begun to think of late that amid 
the crowd of his acquaintance he counted a single friend, and 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


59 


that I was the man. I knew I loved him, but in those days I 
thought disparagingly of myself. That early modesty has de- 
veloped (as it often does) into rather more than an average 
certainty of personal merit. As a matter of fact, it arose from 
my fear lest I might think as highly of myself as I somehow 
thought I ought to do. But i was uncertain of my own 
deserts, and thought his friendship a high honor, as any man 
might have done. As honest, valiant, and stalwart a heart as 
ever beat, I know he had. 

W e said good-night to each other after this with no renewal 
of our earlier conversation, and I went down to my rooms, and 
so to bed. He was closeted with the lawyer for an hour or 
two, I learned afterward, and in the evening he went by ap- 
pointment to see Lord Worborough. I myself made the elder- 
ly peer’s acquaintance a week later, after Reginald Pole’s fu- 
neral. He called at Warwick Court when I happened to be in 
Pole’s rooms — a bent, courteous, mild old man, with an affec- 
tionate, sad smile. 1 was introduced to him, and was received 
with an unexpected cordiality. 

“ Mr. Pole has spoken to me of you, Mr. Denham,” he said, 
‘‘lam very pleased to meet you. You would seem to be great 
friends, you two young gentlemen. I do not find that I make 
many friends nowadays, and 1 have outlived most of the old 
ones.” 

He watched Pole rather closely, as I noticed, and wore, to 
my mind, an air of criticism. It was natural that he should 
desire to know what manner of man was coming after him, 
though it was out of his power to alter the succession. 

“ I came here, Walter, on purpose to ask you to come down 
into the country and stay with me awhile,” he said, looking 
from one to the other of us. “I want your friend to come 
also. One judges a rnan by the company he keeps. It would 
be a shame to ask a pair of young fellows out into the country 
at this time of year under ordinary circumstances, but you see, 
Walter, you can naturally go nowhere and do nothing for a 
time, and it will be well that we should know each other. 
You will come, Mr. Denham? When do you think, Walter, 
that you and your friend can be ready?” 

For my own part, I was a good deal taken aback by this un- 
expected 'invitation; but I accepted it, and we arranged that 
all three of us should go down to Worborough Court next day. 
The old lord stayed and talked for an hour or two. He was 
bookish in an old-fashioned way. He had read no theology 
newer than Paley, no philosophy later than Locke, no fiction 
since Sii- Walter’s, and no verse since Byron’s. Ail the new 


60 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


people were mere names to him, and he did not care to make 
thdr acquaintance; but he was pleased to find that we knew 
his favorites as well as he did— a little better, perhaps, with 
our fresher memories — and he told us simply that he was glad 
to find that we were not trivial-minded. 

Books are a great resource,^" he said, with his mild smile. 
“ I don't read much now, but I find a pleasure in remember- 
ing. Something put Commodore Trunnion into my head as I 
drove down here, and I laughed. I hardly knew poor Eegi- 
nald," he added, suddenly, with an almost alarmed air of 
apology and explanation. He was so confirmed an in- 
valid." 

When he had gone away Pole and I set to work to pack in 
readiness for the morrow's journey, and next day we met the 
old lord at Paddington at the appointed hour, and went down 
into Devonshire. A carriage awaited us, and a break for our 
baggage, and, leaving the latter to follow us, we were bowled 
away through a wide road with beautiful overhanging hedges 
until the lodge gates were thrown open to us and we swept into 
a splendid avenue of forest-trees. 

There is the first glimpse of the house," said Lord Wor- 
borough, laying one hand upon his successor's arm, and point- 
ing with the other, with a long, withered white finger extend- 
ed, the delicate old hand trembling. “ It is a very noble old 
place, and 1 hope you will be happy there when your time 
comes. " 

There was something touching, to my mind, in this informal 
handing over, as it were, of the ancestral place to the young 
fellow who until lately had been so complete a stranger. 

Pole looked at the house, and Lord Worborough, with his 
gold-rimmed pince-nez balanced on his nose, looked at Pole 
with that air of watchful regard 1 had noticed the day before. 

Yes," said the heir apparent', “ it is a noble old place." 
He had been unusually thoughtful and quiet during the whole 
journey, and now there was a settled shadow upon him. 

1 saw, as we came nearer, that it was indeed a noble old 
place. It had a westward aspect, and all its long lines of win- 
dow shone like burnished gold in the light of the declining sun, 
gleaming the brighter by contrast with their somber setting of 
purplish-brown tone. Pole sighed as "he stepped from the 
carriage. 

“ I shall leave you now," said our host, as he entered the 
hall. He drew out his watch and consulted it. “ Forty-five 
minutes to dinner. Ample time." 

We were shown to rooms which were in communication with 


THE WEAKER VESSEL.' 


61 


each other, and when the servants had brought up our baggage 
and everything was laid out in readiness, we were left aloi:.e. 
Pole marched through the open doors of the two intervening 
dressing-rooms into my bed-chamber, and there, with his head 
resting against the wall and his hands in his pockets, stood 
silent for a minute or two. 

“ 1 suppose, he said then, “ that if I should live long 
enough for it to come to that. Lady AVorborough will have a 
right to come here. 


CHAPTER X. 

Whenever I found time' to think of it, I used to be aston- 
ished at my own position, while I stayed atWorborough Court. 
I had three hundred a year of my own, came of a family of no 
distinction, plain yeomen for half a dozen generations, and had 
as much hope of forming aristocratic associations as I had of 
being suddenly translated to the moon, and almost as much 
desire for the one as for the other. But the differences in the 
life were so slight and trivial that I was reconciled to my new 
place insensibly and at once. To ride in a carriage instead of 
a dog-cart or a cab — to have a man behind one's chair at din- 
ner every evening instead of having him there on special occa- 
sions only — to have another man to fold and lay out and brush 
one's clothes instead of performing those small offices with 
one's own hands, were the main changes, and were easily to be 
borne with. Lord Worborough was not only kind, but com- 
panionable, and very like any other amiable, cultivated, and 
good old gentleman. I think I had vaguely expected every- 
thing to be very different from my old experiences; I know I 
found everything very much the same as it had always been. 

Lord Worborough and Pole were a good deal together. The 
heir apparent was being familiarized with the possessions.which 
would one day be his own. His lordship had always kept his 
affairs for the main part in his own hands, and he and Pole 
spent hours in going over business papers together. At such 
times I was thrown upon my own resources, and since in my 
boyhood riding had been my greatest joy, and I had not been 
able to afford a horse in London, I took advantage of the 
chances offered me, and spent most of my spare hours in the 
saddle. 

I was riding one tranquil afternoon toward the village, think- 
ing of a certain day at Pangbourne for the most part, and re- 
calling with great clearness all that had been said and done, 
and how somebody had looked at every turn of head and hand^ 


62 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


when I saw, far away across the fields, the crawling line of 
white steam which betrayed the progress of the afternoon 
down-train* From the distance at which I saw it it looked like 
an emblem of peace and qaiet, and seemed to travel very slow- 
ly, but by and by, rounding a great curve, it came charging 
down toward me with increasing swiftness and a growing roar. 
My horse showed so decided a trepidation at the advancing 
monster that I turned him into a by-lane out of sight of it, 
and did not return to the road I had been traveling until the 
train had paused at the station, and the whistle had announced 
its departure. Then I went on toward the station. I saw 
without any special interest the little handful of country peo- 
ple dispersing from the station door, and a gentleman farmer 
of the neighborhood climb into a dog-cart which had been in 
waiting for him and drive away. The moving of the dog-cart 
revealed three people, a man and woman, the woman very 
fashionably attired, and a railway porter, whose hand was 
pointing straight down the road by which I was approaching 
the group. In a minute or so I came near enough to see them 
clearly, and in a sort of horror I recognized the lady 1 had 
seen aboard the house-boat. Her companion was the little 
Jew solicitor. Goldsmith. 

For a moment 1 was completely shaken out of my self- 
possession, and could think of nothing. My horse bore me 
me on toward them, and 1 saw that I was recognized. I have 
no doubt my face displayed my sensations quite plainly, for 
Mr. Goldsmith looked up at me with a leer of self -approval, 
and wagged his head in what I felt to be a triumphing de- 
rision. His companion, who carried herself with the old harsh 
air of self-disdain and disdain of everything, stared me scorn- 
fully in the face. I was quite certain that their purpose here 
was to annoy Pole, and when they had passed me but a little 
way I wheeled round and overtook them. 

“ YouM better carry the good news ahead of us. Bister Hen- 
ham, said the little Jew. ‘‘ We’re going to make a little 
call at Worborough Court.” 

“I shall have great pleasure,” I responded, as dryly as I 
could. He laughed jeeringly, and I rode on with but a single 
glance at the bitter face beside him. Once out of sight and 
hearing I put my horse from a trot into a gallop, and reached 
the court a good half hour before they could well be expected. 
I asked for Pole and learned that he was closeted with Lord 
Worborough. The horse I had ridden was soft with want of 
exercise, and was in. a lather of foam with his gallop of two and 
a half miles, and my own air was doubtless a good deal flur- 


THE WEAKEB VESSEL. 


63 


ried, for the man whom I questioned looked oddly at me, as if 
he suspected that something was amiss. For the moment 1 
was altogether nonplused. It would look odd to disturb Pole 
by sending for him, and Lord Worborough would probably 
think it an impertinence. Then it struck me that I could give 
the man at the lodge instructions to detain the visitors there, 
and permit them to do no more than send their business to the 
house, leaving it at Pole^s option to do what he chose with 
them afterward. Luckily, while I was hurriedly turning this 
suggestion up and down in my mind I heard a step upon the 
great staircase leading to the hall, and there was Pole himself, 
lounging down with his hands in his pockets as usual, and his 
lithe and active figure swaying into the idlest postures. 

“ Here is Mr. Pole, sir,^^ said the servant, and withdrew. 

Halloo!’^ said Pole. “ Anything the matter? You look 
scared. I told him my news, and looking before him with 
eyes half closed and lips drawn inward, he nodded twice or 
thrice. We^ll go and meet them,^^ he said then, sliding an 
arm through mine, and taking a hat from the stand as we 
went by. 

We walked in silence down the long avenue, passed the 
gates, and came upon the dusty road in silence. 1 looked at 
my companion pretty often, and if I had not known his real 
reasons for disturbance 1 should never have guessed them from 
his face. His arm gave a little sudden twitch as we turned a 
corner of the road. 

“ Here theyare,^^ he said, lhad looked up already and had 
seen them a hundred yards away. They walked on leisurely 
to meet us, and 1 could see that Goldsmith was disturbed by 
the thought of the coming interview. He stared about him 
with an uneasy pretense of not having seen us, fiourished his 
handkerchief, cocked his hat, pulled out his watch, and drew 
a glove off and on. When he could no longer evade the knowl- 
edge of us he fell ever so little behind his companion, who 
walked on steadily with an unchanging look until we halted 
within a yard of each other. 

“ Well,'’'’ said Pole. I could feel his hand trembling slight- 
ly, with a strong, quick tremor, but his face and voice were 
altogether commonplace and indifferent. ‘‘ What does this 
mean?'"’ ^ 

“ I am spending a day or two in the country,’^ she answered, 
mockingly. “1 wanted to exchange congratulations with you. 
Do you think the old man will last long?” 

“ I have been expecting this visit,” Pole returned, with an 


64 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


air of every-day. “ I want you to understand that I sha^n^t 
allow another.^'’ 

‘‘ Indeed!^’ she asked, with a cold sneer, and how do you 
propose to exercise your authority?^' 

“ Well,^’ he said, drawing his arm from mine, and tilting 
his hat over his eyebrows, “I hold the purse-strings, and until 
you promise to leave me absolutely unmolested, 1 shall pay no 
more/^ 

I have taken a house down here,’^ she answered, and I 
am going to live in it. 

“ Very well,^^ said Pole, throwing his head back, and look- 
ing at her from under the brim of his hat. “We understand 
each other. We needn^t waste words about it. You will do 
as you please, and I shall use the only power I have. 

“ We will see about the power you have,^’ said his wife. 
“ At the first delay of a day 1 shall instruct Mr. Goldsmith to 
sue for mainteuance.^' 

“ That's what we shall do,^^ said Mr. Goldsmith, still look- 
ing behind her shoulder. “ We shall sue for maintenance.-’^ 

“You threatened that before,'-’ Pole answered, “ and 1 give 
you the answer I gave then. The moment you move in that 
way I shall go abroad. As for the property here, 1 never 
coveted it, or expected it, and I can do without it I can 
make it over by deed of gift to the next heir. I sha’n’t pay a 
penny until you have ceased to annoy me. It’s the only power 
1 have, and I shall use it” 

1 could see by her eyes that there was no mischief she would 
not have done him if she had had the power. 

“ You have a third of my income now,” he went on, and I 
could see that his steadfast refusal to be angry or shaken was 
beginning to exasperate her horribly. “ In due time, if we 
should both live, and I should be unmolested, your allowance 
will be increased, to what extent I can not tell at present, but 
considerably. You must choose for yourself between a com- 
fortable provision for life and nothing at all. Good-day, Ade- 
laide. 

He turned to go, but she sprung forward and intercepted 
him. 

“ You want war?” she said, with something of a stagey air 
and accent, but with an obviously genuine passion. “ You 
shall have it then.” 

“ No,” he answered, wearily and quietly. “ I want peace, 
and I mean to have it.” He made a movement to walk round 
her, but she intercepted him again. He lighted a cigarette 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 65 

and sat down on the turfy bank by the road-side, with his feet 
apart and his hands clasped between his knees. 

‘‘ 1 will have my rights/^ she said, ‘‘ and I will make your 
life a burden to you. 

He looked up at her and responded with a dry simplicity, 
answering her last words only. 

“ I know you will.'’' 

“ 1 suppose you fancy," she went on, with a strange and 
dreadful distortion of the face, “ that 1 know nothing of your 
doings. I know everything. 1 know why you go to Cromwell 
Terrace. 1 know why you stopped away. I know how much 
you wish me dead, and how you hate the sight of me. Do you 
think I care whether you hate me or not? Not I. Why 
should I?" 

I drew Goldsmith a little aside, and ventured to ask him if 
he thought any good purpose was being served by the pro- 
longation of this scene. 1 pointed out that it could only lead 
to an exasperation of feeling on both sides, and begged him to 
use his influence in getting his client away. He grinned un- 
amiably and shrugged his fat shoulders. 

“ If Bister Pole doesn't like it," he said, Bister Pole's 
got himself to thank for it, and nobody else. " 

^^As to that," I answered, trying to be as diplomatic as 1 
could, I am not in a position to form an opinion.^ But if 
you have your client's interest at heart, Mr. Goldsmith, I am 
sure you will persuade her to go away. I understand that 
Mrs. Pole has no means of her own, and if her husband should 
be so far irritated as to fulfill his threat, your own hopes of 
payment might be seriously affected." 

“ 1 ain't afraid," said Mr. Goldsmith. We can come on 
the estate. It's a legal claim, ain't it? Very well, then. 
What's the use of talking? If you want a man's f redly serv- 
ices you shouldn't chuck him in the river." 

“ I want you both to understand," Pole broke in here, ris- 
ing to his feet. His wife was still talking with a slow, bitter 
intensity, but she stopped at the sound of his voice and list- 
ened, looking from her husband's face to Goldsmith's and back 
again. ‘‘You can make a public scandal of the thing, of 
course. You can drive me out of England, and make it im- 
possible for me to return, but you can't. get money from a man 
who is determined at all costs not to pay it. Now I am deter- 
mined at all costs not to pay it — please understand that quite 
clearly, and once for all — unless I have quiet secured t|) me. 
On the first return of annoyance I shall go away, and leave you 
to your own devices. " 


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THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


His face was very pale and his eyes glittered, but he spoke 
with a steady voice, and it was plain to see that he produced an 
effect on both of them. Goldsmith looked uneasily at' his 
client, and she, with her handsome, dreadful face as white as 
Pole% looked back at him, her chin raised, and her penciled 
eyelids drooping, till the eyes shone through a mere slit. I 
could not help thinking that there was something posed and 
studied in her look and attitude, and in my own mind I pict- 
ured her as rehearsing this and similar scenes with a hungry 
relish for the excitement of quarrel. 

"" Now, Goldsmith, Pole went on, you know your client. 
If you advise her to her present course you must take the con- 
sequences — you can guess what they will be.^^ 

Mr. Goldsmith showed signs of faltering. His client opened 
her eyes in a studied disdain and amazement, and, turning her 
head aside from him slowly, kept her glance fixed upon his 
face for awhile, and then withdrew it with a practiced scorn. 

It^s no use looking at me like that,^^ said Mr. Goldsmith, 
fretfully. “ Of course I^m devoted to your interests, Mrs. 
Pole. I want to make the best of things for you; but it^’s no 
use cutting your nose off to spite your face. NOw, is it?'’^ 

“ Come, Denham, said Pole, taking me by the arm and 
moving away. This time his wife made no attempt to stay 
him, and the last I saw of the pair we left behind was that the 
little Jew was standing bareheaded and proffering his arm, 
while his client .turned disdainfully away from him and stood 
stock-still in the middle of the dusty road. 

We walked in silence for some two or three hundred yards, 
and then Pole spoke. 

“ If they drive me to it I will keep my word. I dare say 
you thought that I was harsh. 1 donT care much what peo- 
ple think as a general rule — perhaps 1 care too little — and if I 
justify myself to you you must take it as a compliment. 

I knew very well he was not thinking flippantly, however he 
might speak. 

I have suffered enough already, and I canT afford to have 
this misery hanging over me, threatening to come down at any 
moment. I must use the only power I have.^-’ 

I hastened to assure him that I did not see what other course 
lay open to him. In his new position at least, whatever it had 
been in his old one, it was impossible, or almost impossible, tro 
hide his whereiabouts. I thought he had an absolute right to 
offer the bargain he had set before his wife, and that if she 
woifld not accept it he was clear of responsibility for her 
action. 


THE WEAKEK VESSEL. 


67 


“ I am glad you think so/’ he answered. “ It helps me to 
think so. Let us say no more about it.” 

But the new hint of Pole’s interest in Miss Delamere dis- 
turbed me, and the more I thought about it the less assured I 
felt, and the more grieved and anxious. I felt my own 
thoughts intrusive and impatient, but I could not banish them. 


CHAPTER XL 

The “ Morning Post ” had announced the fact of the arrival 
of Mr. Pole and Mr. John Denham at Worborough Court, and 
after a space of some six weeks, during which nothing of im- 
portance to my history happened beyond the scenes already in- 
dicated, it announced the departure for London of the same 
distinguished pair. We went back to town and resumed our 
old quarters and our old ways. Before we left. Lord Wor- 
horough had taken the warmest sort of liking to Pole, and 
had, it appeared, been anxious to press an allowance upon him, 
and to induce him to take up a residence more in accord with 
his prospects and the social position they imposed upon him. 
But Pole protested that he had as much as he wanted, and 
preferred for the present to remain in his old quarters, and so, 
to my great satisfaction, we went back to an unchanged life. 

If my friend had been situated like most young men of his 
age, had been free to carve out his own career and dispose of 
his own destiny, I am sure that I should have been able to re- 
joice in the fortune which had befallen him with my whole 
heart. But having such solid ground for thinking poorly of 
his high fortune on one side, I allowed myself to think poorly 
of it on another. My thoughts and feelings here were purely 
selfish, as I am quite willing to admit. My own means gave 
me no right to mix on terms of equality with people of such 
exceptional wealth as would at one time or another come into 
my friend’s possession. I did not altogether like the idea of 
his having that enormous income and that imposing title, and 
I felt' as if these things forced us apart already. But the differ- 
ence — if difference there waS' — was wholly on my side. Pole 
showed not the slightest sign of being touched by it. 

It rained one evening pretty heavily, and 1 had business 
abroad. The days were beginning to draw in, and it was dusk 
in the court when I got to the open door-way of the house and 
stood there unfolding my umbrella. The lamps were lighted, 
and gleamed rawly in the faint light. There was something 
noticeably dismal in the chill mingling of gas-light with what 
remained of daylight, and the whining wind, which wrinkled 


68 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


the puddles on the stone pavement, and the relentless plashing 
rain intensified the feeling. I was conscious, in an absent- 
minded way, of a further note of emphasis — a single figure in 
the otherwise deserted court, a man who, with a frock-coat 
shining with rain, and a shapeless old silk hat, from whose 
battered brim the drops fell on his nose, stood lurching by the 
opposite railings, looking upward. As I put up my umbrella 
and stepped out into the rain he gave ever so slight a start, of 
nervousness, as I conjectured, and made off in the direction of 
Holborn. He looked abject and deserted, and I gave him a 
sidelong glance in passing. He gave a sidelong glance at me, 
and shot his eyes away from mine in a mere fraction of a 
second. He was sufficiently miserable to look at, but just re- 
spectable enough to have a right to be offended by an offer of 
charity. I half expected his step to quicken, and could almost 
hear in fancy the thick voice which I knew must go along with 
that bibulous nose and the bibulous unsteady lips he had, mur- 
muring the known formula about the poor man and the night^s 
lodging. He came slopping on behind me, with the peculiar 
sucking noise at each footstep which broken boots make on a 
wet and level pavement, and I gave him a passing thought of 
pity and forgot him, as we have to forget scores of such phan- 
toms every day in a great city. 

I went to Bloomsbury Square, I remember, to call upon an 
acquaintance of mine, a musician, who had set some verses of 
mine to music, and who had given me an appointment that 
evening to hear a professional tenor rehearse the song. I 
stayed an hour, I dare say, and then left. There, planted 
against the railings was a dim, gleaming figure, at such a dis- 
tance that I should have not noticed him at all but for the 
chance light a gas-lamp cast upon his wet arm and shoulder, 
and his seedy, shining hat. He would appear to have gone to 
sleep there, but the noise of the door which, escaping the maid- 
servant’s fingers, slammed loudly behind me, made him jump 
into a bolt-upright attitude, and I thought of the man in the 
court. 

So far there was nothing in the world to make me believe 
that it was worth anybody’s while to stalk me about London, 
and so I fancied this second sight of the man to be an accident. 
I went home and forgot him again. But next day about noon 
I turned to look at something in the street, and there was the 
man once more, slouching a score of yards behind. He turned 
away when I saw him, and made believe to stare at a shop- 
window, but I observed one or two furtive glances in my own 
direction, and beg^n to grow a little curious. I sauntered on 


69 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 

and went round a corner, and then dropping my pace to a mere 
lounge, I went round a second corner and there waited. The 
shabby man almost walked against me — recoiled with a start, 
and then took the other side of the road. I affected to take 
no notice of him and lounged on again, and coming in awhile 
to another main street, saw my man behind me still, this time 
by the aid of a big mirror in the shop-window of a carver and 
gilder. The shop-window was at a corner, and the mirror 
stood at an angle in it, giving a clear view of the road for two- 
score yards. I began to suspect the shabby man of shadowing 
me for a purpose, and I walked about with no other meaning 
at all than to see if he would follow still, taking pains not to 
look as if I knew anything of his presence. It became quite 
clear at last that the man was really following me, and when 
1 had led him a long ramble I bent my way homeward. When 
I had come within a minute^s walk of Warwick Court I quick- 
ened my steps to a good round pace, and, once within its shel- 
ter, ran. I passed the iron gate, turned to the left, and then 
nivTched leisurely down Brownlow^treet back into Holborn. 
There, at the corner of Chancery Lane, was my man in con- 
verse with another, a gentleman in a skin cap, short trousers, 
and big high-lows. My original follower went down Chancery 
Lane, the man in the skin cap crossed the street and took up 
his stand at a corner of the entrance to the court. I went 
away to luncheon, pretty certain of finding him there when I 
came back again, wondering what on earth this evident espion- 
age meant, and perhaps exciting myself about it a little more 
than necessary- 

Late in the afternoon I went back to chambers, and after 
waiting for half an hour, took another ramble. As I expected, 
the man in the high-lows was so good as to follow me every- 
where, to wait outside a hbuse in which I made a prolonged 
call, and to accompany me at a judicious distance home 
again. 

I went straight up to Pole^s chambers, and found him 
engaged with a book and a cigar. He opened the door with 
the book in his hand, and threw it on to the sofa as he entered 
the sitting-room before me. 

Well/'’ he said, cheerfully, “ what^s the news?^^ 

I told him my curious experience of the last four-and-twenty 
hours. At first he said: ‘‘ Nonsense,'*" and laughed, but when 
I began to describe the experience in detail he grew serious, 
and proposed that we should at once go out together and in- 
vestigate the matter. I consented to this quite eagerly. I 
described the men before we started, so that he should be able 


70 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


easily to identify them. We walked into Holborn and caught 
no sight of either of them. 

‘‘ Let us take a quiet way/^ I said, “ and see what hap- 
pens. 

We steered our course for the great west-central squares, 
which at that hour lay silent and almost deserted. We . walked 
slowly, both keeping a keen lookout, and before we had made 
half a dozen turnings Pole began to think that there was some- 
thing in it. A pinched, wispy little man, in disreputable 
black, took the same way as ourselves, with a persistence which 
would have been very singular if it had been accidental. W'hen 
we began to be .pretty sure of him we veered about and met 
him. ■ He passed us without a look or sign, and two minutes 
later he was following us upon our backward track. 

“ There is no doubt about it,^’ Pole confessed. ‘‘ You are 
being followed. What is the meaning of it?'^ 

I could not make a guess, but my nerves began to thrill a 
little at the notion of this, unwearying, stealthy watch. There 
was a mystery in it which was certainly not altogether agree- 
able, and was yet not without its charm. 

“We will discomfit this gentleman, said Pole. “I am 
going to ask him what he means by it,” 

I asked him to wait a moment. 1 thought 1 saw a better 
way than he suggested. There could be nothing got out of 
the man by questioning him, but I proposed to hunt the 
hunter and find out where he went and by whom he was em- 
ployed. It was absurd to suppose that he and his comrades 
were tracking me for the mere amusement of the adventure. 
They were set on by somebody and paid by somebody, though 
it was out of my power to guess why anybody should think it 
worth his while to mark me down in this way. 

We stood at a dark corner discussing this question. 

“ Depend upon it, Pole,"*^ 1 said, and before I could get any 
further the pinched little man slunk by us without a glance at 
either. “ We will part here,^^ 1 whispered, a moment later. 
“ Keep an eye on the fellow. See if he follows me again.'’’ 

We agreed upon this, said “ good -night ” to each other 
loudly, and took' different ways. 

1 lighted a cigar and sauntered slowly, to give my man a 
chance of keeping up with me. I was almost as a-nxious not 
to be lost sight of as I judged him to be to keep sight of me. 
I heard no following footsteps, though the square was as silent 
as a desert, and I confess to many curious little shudderings 
as I went. I have never had any very distinguished oppor- 
tunity of learning whether I am brave or a coward, and 1 am 


THE WEAKEK VESSEL. 


71 


rather Inclined to fancy that nobody can he sure of his own 
• courage until it has been tested, but 1 think that most people 
would have felt nervous under the circumstances. It was not 
that I anticipated any bodily harm, for I was a match for the 
wispy old man and naif a dozen like him, but imagination 
came into play, and a score of tingling adventures happened 
every minute. 

I walked softly and listened with all my might. I heard 
hundreds of imaginary sounds, but not a singla noise which 
could reasonably be translated into that of a pursuing footstep, 
and at last I paused and turned. I was in a long, deserted, 
silent street, and from end to end there was not a living creat- 
ure to be seen. I retraced my steps, and saw nothing, and 
after a time it became evident to my mind that the inexplica- 
ble pursuit had been abandoned. After lingering long to be 
assured of this, and having attracted the wondering regard of 
more than one policeman by my suspicious loiterings, I went 
home. Pole was there before me. 

The hunt is over for the time,-’^ he s^id. “ 1 fancy the 
fellow understood the meaning of our maneuver, and declined 
to be followed in his turn. Any way, he made no further at- 
tempt to follow you, and 1 lost sight of him."’^ 

We talked about the theme until we wore it altogether 
threadbare, and then we went to bed. For a day or two as I 
went about the streets I looked around me to find some trace 
of the old watch, but seeing nor^e I forgot it, until one even- 
ing, emerging from Warwick Court, I saw, sneaking along the 
opposite side of the way, my friend in the fur cap. I was 
naturally interested in him, and at first it tickled me some- 
what to observe that he was slinking, and pausing, and peer- 
ing, as if in pursuit of the old business with a new unconscious 
quarry ahead of him. I crossed over and dropped behind him, 
and, following his constant glances in one direction, discovered, 
with a sudden chill and start, that he was hunting my com- 
panion. 

“ And now,^^ said 1 to myself, ‘‘ we will find out what this 
extraordinary business means if I follow for a week.^^ 

I had not to follow for a week as it turned out, but 1 got 
through as dull and weary an evening as I ever remember to 
have passed in my life. Pole turned into a restaurant, and this 
reminded me that 1 myself was hungry, and that the object of 
my excursion from my chambers had been dinner. The man 
in the fur cap took up his post within sight of the entrance 
and waited there. I took up my post in sight of him, and 
waited also. The man smoked several pipes, and danced many 


72 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


shuffling dances on the pavement. The streams of traffic 
flowed this way and that, clocks boomed and clanged the 
quarters through the noises of the streets with a most un- 
reasonable interval between. I grew absurdly hungry, and 
everybody who left the restaurant looked like Pole. I got to 
dread the eye of the policeman on his beat, and knew that I 
was a suspicious character. When I had waited an hour and 
a half, which felt like a dreary day, Pole emerged from the 
swinging doors, and went home. The man in the fur cap fol- 
lowed him, and 1 followed the man in the fur cap. 

At the foot of Warwick Court the spy found an associate, 
and after a whispered word or two with him moved off at a 
good round pace, leaving his confederate behind. I went after 
number one, determined to find where he might go. I had a 
second wait while he refreshed himself at a public-house. 1 
peered through the glass door, and saw him engaged with a 
pork pie and a pewter pot. It began to rain, and if the whole 
thing had been less mysterious and had seemed less important 
I could have easily found it in my heart to^resign the chase. 

At last patience was rewarded, and the man, coming again 
upon the street, turned up his collar against the rain, plucked 
the fur cap over his eyes, and walked away with an air of de- 
cision. He paused, after a lengthy walk, before a private 
house in a respectable street, knocked, and was admitted. 
The door was no sooner closed behind him than 1 rah to it, 
and by the light of a near lamp read the inscription upon the 
brass plate: 

‘‘Mr. Goldsmith, solicitor. 


CHAPTER XII. 

1 STOOD at the door for a time, sunk deep in thought, and 
by and by I began to get a glimmering of insight, though no 
more. I had only just begun to move away when the door re- 
opened and the man in the fur cap and the big high-lows came 
out and passed me. 1 touched him on the arm and he turned 
his head and paused. 

“ I want a word or two with you, if you please, I said. 

“ What if I donT please?’^ he asked. He had not actually 
brought his footsteps to a halt, but was moving on lingeringly 
with a backward stare at me. 

“ I think you will,^'’ I answered, persuasively jingling a 
handful of silver in my. pocket, “ if I make it v/orth your 
while. Have you any objection to a drink, to begin with?'*' 

Well, no, he said, he hadn't, not so far as he knowed. I 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


73 


asked him to be so good as to pilot me to a place where we 
might have a’moment’s talk in quiet. 

“ I"ll show you the way, right enough/" he answered, “ but 
you needn"t think as you"re a-going to get anything out o" me. 
I can, pay for my own drinks when I want "em."" 

I made no response to this, and he, turning a corner, led me 
down a by-street and into a public-house. A barman dozed 
behind the pewter counter, and but for him the place was 
empty. I gave my spy a glass of hot rum and water, and for 
form"s sake asked for a bottle of lemonade. When I paid for 
these I pulled out all the money 1 had in my pocket, precisely 
as Mr. Goldsmith would have done. I had perhaps three 
pounds about me, and I saw my friend of the fur cap looking 
at it as if he would like it to change hands I thought. 

“Now,"" I asked him, “you don"t believe in selling any- 
thing for nothing, do you?"" 

“No,"" he said, shivering agreeably after his first gulp of 
hot rum and water; “ I ain"t one o" that sort."" 

Nobody would have expected anything of the sort, I told 
him, from so shrewd-looking a fellow. I thought of the In- 
spector Buckett, and was resolved to be complimentary. 

“ But now,"" I said, “ I want you to tell me one or two 
things."" I put a half-crown on the pewter counter and looked 
at him. He shook his head decisively. I set another on the 
top of it, and looked at him again, and again he shook his 
head, this time with something of a mournful sneer. He still 
made negative signs when four half-crowns lay one upon an- 
other before him, but they were less decided than before. 
“ Very well,"" I said, feigning to observe plain acquiescence in 
his manner. “ Half to begin with, the other half afterward. "" 
I held out five shillings toward him. He lingered for a mo- 
ment, but no more. 

“ What is it?"" he asked, as he pouched the coins. 

“ You are employed by Mr. Goldsmith?"" I asked. He con- 
tented himself with a nod. “ He set you on to follow me?"" 
He shook his head and smiled. “ Who set you on to follow 
me?"" 

“ Nobody,"" he answered; “ that was a herror."" 

“Ah! I thought so. You were employed to follow Mr. 
Pole?"" 

Again he nodded. 

“Why do you follow Mr. Pole?"" 

“ I"m paid for it,"" he answered. 

“ Exactly. But what do you want to find out about him?"" 
/ The man looked about him suspiciously, finished his drink. 


74 


TJ i:e weakek vessel. 


and moved toward tt e door with an almost imperceptible nod 
of invitation for me ‘io follow. I obeyed the signal and he led 
me through a little maze of streets. I stopped him at length 
by declaring that I would go no further. 

“ The potman was a-listening/’ he said, wheezily; ‘‘ I could 
see it by the way he ^eld Ts ^ed. My place is worth a lot more 
than ten shilling. 

Very likely,” I answered; “ but I donT want you to lose 
your place. I want you to keep it. Tell me, what do you 
want to find out about Mr. Pole?'’'’ 

“ The order is,’^ he answered, leaning forward and pouring 
his spirituous breath into my face, “ to see where he goes, and 
who he meets — specially one place and one person. 

“ What is the pJace?’^ I asked. 

House in Cromwell Terrace,” he answered. 

“ And the person?” 

“ A young female as lives in the house. 

“ Of course you know no reason why this is being done?” 

“ The governor don’t tell me a lot; you can bet your ^at on 
that, sir.” 

There was no more to be made out of him for the time, and 
1 paid him his five shillings and parted from him, but not be- 
fore I had ascertained that he knew my name and address, and 
had arranged with him to communicate with me in case any- 
thing should come to his knowledge. I had very little com- 
punction in employing this personage to act against his original 
employer, and, as I walked home, Spenser’s line about entire 
affection hating nicer hands came into my mind, and justified 
me altogether. 

It was embarrassing to take the news of my discovery to 
Pole, and 1 was conscious of a feeling, which I knew of course 
to be altogether ridiculous, that 1 was interfering in his 
affairs, and prying into concerns which he desired to keep 
secret. But it was not a matter for any foolish delicacy, and 
I seized the first chance I had of laying it before him. 

He tried hard to preserve his ordinary look of impassivity, 
and listened with his shoulders lounging against the wall, his 
hands in his pockets, and his head leaning sideways. 

‘‘You ask me nothing,” he said, when I had done. 

“ "Why should I ask you anything?” I demanded in return. 

You must think it all very exceptional and strange.” 

Of course it was exceptional and strange, and I admitted as 
much to myself and to him. 

“ Don’t take my silence as a sign of indifference or unfriend- 


THE WEAKEK VESSEL. 75 

Jiness/^ I «aid at last. ‘‘ I will ask you that, but I don^t care 
to ask you any more.^^ 

He left his lounging place by the wall and took several turns 
about the room. Then he stopped and laid a hand upon my 
shoulder. 

“ There are no suspicions, no accusations, in your mind?^^ 

“ My dear fellow, no.^^ 

“ Denham,^^ he said, suddenly,” seating himself before me. 
‘‘1 donT know what to do. I donT know how I ought to 
act."^ 

I did not know, I answered, that my advice could he of 
service to him. 

“ In plain English/^ he said, after a time, “ here is my 
trouble. Ought I to publish the fact of this miserable mar- 
riage?^* 

I had thought over this question so often and so long that I 
had my answer ready. 

“ The reasons against the publication are obvious enough. 
What are the reasons for it?** 

‘‘ They are obvious enough also — some of them. Here is 
the name of a most spotless and admirable lady coupled with 
mine. You coupled them together in your mind, once at 
least; my wife couples them. That old snob and tuft-hunter 
Delamere is trying his hardest to couple them, in fact. Dr. 
Fish is full of hints and smiles. I don*t believe — I don*t be- 
lieve Miss Delamere cares two straws for me. I suppose I 
must have let it be seen at one time that I cared a great deal 
more than two straws for Miss Delamere.** 

It cost him a great effort to say this. He spoke in a tone 
of affected lightness, which afforded as poor and thin a disguise 
as 1 can remember to have known. When I looked at him his 
face was pale, and he was looking fixedly before him. The 
confession came upon me with a great shock, and I understood 
in the light of it many things which had hitherto been dark to 
me. Here was half the tragedy I had been afraid of. 

“ I made that wretched marriage,** he went on, after a 
lengthy silence — ‘‘ never mind why. I thought 1 was acting 
very nobly and loftily, and so on, and 1 found out that I had 
acted like a fool. Who is it says we reserve our keenest re- 
pentances for our virtues? I was married, anyhow, and tied 
for life. You have seen my wife, and there*s no need to de- 
scribe her to you, or to talk about her at all. We lived to- 
gether for a month, and then parted. I met Miss Delamere 
some time afterward. I won*t say that I fell in love with 
her.** He was talking in a hard, dry voice, and with a man- 


76 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


ner as dry and hard as solid jieople of deep-rooted feeling do 
when they are greatly moved. I formed a very high opinion 
of her. 1 thought her the most admirable woman I had ever 
known, and/’ he added, very doggedly, I think so still. In 
awhile 1 began to see that other people were becoming aware 
of my opinion. Her father was aware of it, and resented it as 
an impertinence, until an accidental death or two put me in 
reasonable distance of a great future and a peerage. ^ Then 
he changed his mind, as might have been expected of him.” 

He, rose then and paced steadily to and fro with his chin 
upon his breast. 

“ One night,” he went on, old Doctor Fish poked a fool- 
ish joke at me about an approaching marriage, and that de- 
cided me. I never went near the Delamere’s house again 
until I went with you, and then I thought the folly had blown 
over. It seems to have revived and sprung to life again, and I 
must stop away again and put an end to it. ” 

It will certainly be wise to do so,” I said. 

‘‘ It’s rather hard lines, too,” he added, with that irritating 
assumption of not caring, which, after all, I was compelled to 
admire. For my own part, when I am hurt I cry out pro- 
digiously. When I am in trouble I want somebody to whom 
to pour out my complaints — a friend, to share my burden. 

It’s brutally hard lines when you come to think of it. ” 

“ I fancy,” I said, ‘‘ that your wife and Goldsmith can have 
but little knowledge of you.” 

“ My wife and Goldsmith have very little knowledge of 
me,” he answered. “ They have but very little knowledge of 
the case at all, it would seem. I don’t think I’m much of a 
coxcomb, Denham?” 

He put this question with something very like his usual 
natural air, and I laughed as I answered. Not much of a 
coxcomb, I was inclined to fancy. 

“ Then I can say what is on my mind to say. It’s no com- 
pliment to a man when a woman falls in love with him, be- 
cause women constantly fall in love with utterly worthless 
people. They fall in love wirfi ugly fellows, they fall in love 
with men who are dazzlingly stupid, or mean, or base. It’s 
quite on the cards that a woman might fall in love with me. 
It’s a recognizable possibility. Eh?” 

“ Quite a recognizable possibility.” 

“ Then what should the sensitive creature do who desires to 
save a hypothetical young woman from wasting her affections? 
What should a tender-hearted man in my position, reading the 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


77 


first signs of dawning affection, do to shield the poor creature 
from the blight?^^ 

“ For Heaven ^s sake, Pole,^^ 1 besought him, ‘Mon^t talk 
in this bitter way. Upon my soul, you are worse than worm- 
wood.'’^ 

‘‘Yes,^^ said Pole, dryly, biting off the end of a cigar. 
“ I^’m a great deal worse than wormwood.-’'’ 

^ “ Look here, Pole,’'’ 1 said, rising and laying a hand upon 
him. “It’s no use beating about the bush any longer,, and 
hurting each other with pretenses. You’d best let it be known 
at Cromwell Terrace that you are married, and then all the 
trouble, and all the chance of trouble, will he over. ” 

“ I said just now I wasn’t a coxcomb,” he answered, with a 
bitter lightness. Then looking sideways at me with a face as 
white as marble, he asked: “ You think she cares?” 

“ I think she may. I know nothing. I have seen nothing. 
She may come to care.” 

“ All right,” he answered, throwing the cigar into the fire- 
place. “ Go and cry it on the house-tops. Look here, old 
chap.” He gripped my arm and pushed me to and fro more 
strongly than he knew. “We won’t say any more about it 
now. I’ve got some letters I ought to write, and — and some 
things to think about. Come up to-morrow, will you? Good- 
night. ” 

We shook hands, and I left him. I don’t suppose I could 
feel anybody’s grief to-day as I felt his then. We grow 
selfish as we grow older, and our own cares absorb us. But 
at that time I had no trouble of my own that was worth the 
thinking of, and it is simple truth that I loved him like a 
brother. I went away heavy-hearted, and in my own lonely 
room I listened to the sound of his footsteps overhead, to the 
unnumbered little noises which bespoke disordered and hasty 
movements and a troubled mind, for hours. 

In the morning, among my letters, I found a note from 
Pole. 

“ I have been thinking,” he wrote, “ of our last night’s 
talk. I have come to the conclusion that it wiU be best 
to make a clean breast of it. I am going down to Wor- 
borough. The old man will be grieved, I know, but I must 
tell him with my own lips. I authorize you to speak about 
the matter where you will. There is no need for discretion, 
and you may tell anybody. Tell Fish, and he will save you all 
further trouble. ” 


78 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


If there was anything made clear by the resolve thus ex- 
pressed, it was Pole^s fear lest Mary Delamere should come to 
care for him in her ignorance of his position. And if anybody 
who knows the facts chooses to think the fear coxcombical, I 
need hardly say that I am very far indeed from being in, agree- 
ment with him. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

I COULD not remember to have had a task more embarrass- 
ing laid upon me. It was not merely embarrassing, but down- 
right painful, even in the mere contemplation of it. And yet 
it was so evidently the only thing to be done that it was not to 
be evaded. Pole went down to Worborough Court as he had 
promised, and I was left alone to fulfill my part of the bargain 
made between us. 

I had let almost the whole of the first day slide by without 
action, and had constantly tested myself with rehearsals of the 
disclosure I had to make. The fact that I was fully authorized 
to make it had next to no effect upon my mind. Look at it 
how I would it seemed to wear the air pf an intolerable im- 
pertinence. But, as I wandered disconsolate down Piccadilly 
that night, trying to summon up resolution to get the matter 
over, I encountered no less a person than the Reverend Dr. 
Fish. He was beaming, as he always beamed, and overflow- 
ing with that fatuous and indiscriminating kindliness which 
marked his aspect in the world at large. We shook hands 
with great cordiality. 

“ How. do you do, my 3’’oung iriend, how do you do? Ram- 
bling? Philosophizing? A charming night for the time of 
year, but cold. 

‘‘ Doctor Fish,^^ said I, plunging in medias res, “ I have 
something to say to you. 

The old gentleman stopped short and looked at me with an 
almost ludicrous air of alarm. I became awkwardly aware of 
a somewhat too tragic intensity in my own tone and manner. 

‘‘ I have been asked, I continued, taking him by the ai-m 
and leading him along, to make public a certain painful 
piece of news. 

The old gentleman, with his hat perched on the back of his 
head, and his face turned up to mine with an expression of 
alarmed bewilderment, ambled beside me. 

“ Pole,^^ I said, “ has gone down to Worborough Court to 
see Lord Worborough, and to make to him the same state- 


THE WEAKEE VESSEL. 


79 


ment which he authorizes me to make to his friends in gen- 
eral/" 

“ God bless my soul!’" said Dr. Fish. 

‘‘ There were reasons,"" I went on, delaying, in a sufficiently 
lame and impotent fashion, what I had to say, why the thing 
should not have been made generally known before. But 
there are now reasons — very urgent reasons — why it should be 
known. "" 

Dr. Fish said ‘‘ God bless my soul!"" again, and ambled on, 
holding his umbrella tightly at the middle and gasping at me 
open-mouthed. 

“ Pole,"" I said, making quite a desperate effort, ‘‘ some 
years back contracted a most miserable and unhappy mar- 
riage."" 

The doctor stopped, withdrew his arm, and faced me in 
speechless amazement. 

His wife is living still. I have met her twice, and I can 
thoroughly understand the reasons* which prompted him to 
concealment. But now his changed position and certain other 
circumstances, which it is not necessary that we should talk 
about — "" 

‘‘ My dear youp.g friend,"" said the doctor, laying his hand 
upon my arm, “ we will say nothing whatever about them."" 

I had not expected so much delicacy from him. ‘‘ I can see 
reasons; I can see oiie or two reasons. The poor misguided 
boy! Dear me! Such prospects! This will be a blow to his 
lordship. Quite right and wise on the poor boy"s part to make 
the thing known. Quite right and wise. But who is the lady? 
Is she — is she — anybody?"" 

I told him that I knew nothing whatever of Mrs. Pole’s ' 
antecedents; that she looked and spoke as if she might have 
been a lady; but, I added, whatever her antecedents might 
have been, she was utterly impossible as a life-companion for 
her husband. 

I had always known the old gentleman to be of a feeling and 
sympathetic turn, but I seemed now to have done him less 
than justice. He was very much moved indeed by the intel- 
ligence I had given him, and when we had resumed our prog- 
ress westward he walked in silence for full five minutes, 
sighing every now and again, and shaking his head quite 
mournfully. After this, however, T fancied that I began to 
discern a sort of sad complacency in his manner, and I do not 
think I am far wrong in supposing that lie found a compen- 
sation for this mournful news in uie fact that he was author- 
ized to spread it abroad. 


80 


THE WEAKEK VESSEL. 


There is, of course/^ he said, no possibility of a mistake 
in this.^ You understand, John, that if this story is to be re- 
peated it must be no guess-work.'’^ 

I told him anew that Pole himself desired the fact to be 
made known, and parted from him shortly afterward with a 
feeling that I had been unwarrantably meddling with my 
friend’s affairs. So far as the casting abroad of the news could 
go, the thing was over and done with. It was quite certain, 
as I knew, that the intelligence would reach all for whom it 
was intended., and a few chance thousands outside that limited 
circle. As a matter of fact it was public property in a week, 
for the earliest precursor of the great tribe of society journals 
got hold of it, and printed it in a paragraph, the ;purposed 
mystery of which blinded nobody. We have grown quite ac- 
customed nowadays to the invasion of what used to be called 
the sanctity of private life; but at this time the publication of 
this kind of detail was new in our experience, and Foie and I 
were not unnaturally angry, at it. 

It served Pole’s purpose in one marked way, however, inas- 
much as it brought under Mr. Goldsmith’s notice the fact that 
all attempt to preserve secrecy had been abandoned, and so 
took one weapon out of hands which were not likely to be 
overscrupulous. It did this very completely, for the final 
line of the paragraph ran thus: “It is a significant fact that 
the husband has himself decided to publish the news of the 
marriage he has hitherto so successfully concealed. ” I thought 
it probable at the time that the writer might not altogether 
know of what the fact was significant, and I have since re- 
marked that the journalistic capacity for indicating signifi- 
cances and incapacity for actually seeing them are a part of 
the newspaper man’s mental outfit. 

When once I had set the news afloat I became actually tor- 
mented by the desire to know how it was received in Cromwell 
Terrace. The very force of my sympathy served to keep me 
away for a week or two, and I felt so awkward about the whole 
melancholy business that, if it had not been for Clara’s pres- 
ence in the house, I should probably have avoided Mr. Dela- 
mere’s residence forever. I have said nothfiig of the progress 
of my own personal affairs during the last month or two, and 
yet that progress was noticeable and rapid. Looking back to 
almost any period of life, and taking up any thread of exist- 
ence, it is curious to notice how the. contemplation of that one 
line will, for the moment, belittle the others. By dint of 
thinking of it you may make almost any episode of your life 
look disproportionately large; and I suppose that one of the 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


81 


chief difficulties to be surmounted in the relation of one^s own 
history is provided by this very tendency. I will be careful at 
least not to exaggerate one line. To go back to all those ten- 
der hopes and foolish fears, to recall them for but a minute or 
two in the silence of my own study, is at once to make them 
dominate all other incidents and feelings in my remembrance 
of the time. Pole was my friend, and I shall not easily be 
persuaded that many men have found a friend more entirely 
and devotedly at their service in heart and deed. But, after 
all, he occupied but a mere corner of my life, and every other 
nook and cranny of it was crammed full of Clara. 

I have it on the authority of my wife that I might have 
spared myself all the ecstasies of despair in which at this time 
I reveled. I responcL by declaring that, though I might have 
wished to escape them then, I should have been a most mis- 
taken man to do it. Curious! How one looks back from the 
haven of middle age, where no tempest can toss the hearths 
bark on that vexed ocean any more, and thinks how enviable 
that despairing, wrecked, and drowning mariner really was! 
What happy, fairy islands of safety sprung up sometimes in 
mid-ocean, when the tempest was at its loudest! What gleams 
of heavenly blue broke through the dividing storm! Every- 
body but the most insensible knows these things, everybody 
loves to recall them. The love-stories of purely fictitious per- 
sonages make up ninety per cent, of the world^s literature, 
and one finds, now and again, the most elderly, sober-minded, 
and commonplace old people renewing their own youth in a 
pretty, rose-colored Ho Man^s Land which has Jack and Jill 
for inhabitants. 

These sentimental reflections will have made it clear to any 
person of average discernment that a prolonged absence from 
the house graced by Miss Grantley^s presence was impossible 
to the present writer. He stayed away, this present writer, 
until he could stay away no longer; a full ten days, as I re- 
member, and then, with a transparent pretense of having some 
reason apart from the only one he acted on, he made a call. 

I had seemed to be guilty of an impertinence in speaking of 
Bolen's affairs, though he had authorized me to do it; but the 
sense I felt then of my own insolent intrusiveness was not a 
thousandth part so strong as that which suddenly assailed me 
when I saw Miss Delamere. A great change had fallen upon 
her. Her beauty had never been of the robustest order, but 
now, to my terror and sorrow, she had grown shadowy, so pale 
and ethereal she looked. She smiled with all her accustomed 
sweetness when she shook hands with me. There was not the 


82 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


faintest hint of any expression in her face which asked for pity, 
and yet I knew that she had passed through a time of dreadful 
trouble. I have had intuitions enough in my time to know 
that they can be true, and to be certain that they can be ab- 
surd. Yet not even the after-proof of knowledge added or 
could add to the certainty of her love for Pole, which at that 
instant flooded and fllled my mind. I knew it, and I was, be- 
yond expression, ashamed of myself for knowing it. 

I contrived, in a roundabout way, to inquire if Miss Grant- 
ley were at home, and learned that she was out on a visit to 
some old friends of her mother^s in the neighborhood. I do 
not think now that there was any intention in Miss Delamere’s 
manner, hut I thought so then; and between my own shyness 
and my pity for her I fell into a state of complete discomfort. 
Under these conditions, even the arrival of Jones was a thing 
to be welcomed. He came in with Mr. Delamere; and Mary, 
taking out some trifle of embroidery, assumed an abstracted 
air, and feigned to be closely occupied with it. 1 suppose it is 
not easy for a woman of brains and sensibility to throw her 
whole soul into the contemplation of stitches, and it was very 
evident to me that, however closely she might seem to be en- 
gaged upon her task, she followed the talk which took place 
among us. 

Mr.' Delamere was unusually magniflcent that evening. He 
had an air of having done, or undertaken to do, some act of 
Christian magnanimity toward somebody, and^was full of pity- 
ing condescensions to the world at large. Jones was in some- 
thing of the same mood, but in him it was tempered by a rare 
hilarity. 

1 suppose, said Mr. Delamere, “ that there could be 
nothing more stupid than to be angry at stupidity. There is 
a sense in which patience is the best of the virtues. A wise 
discrimination lies at the root of a virtuous patience. One is 
not angry because a flfty-six-pound shot has not the lightness 
of a feather, or because a feather has not the ponderosity of 
the shot. In fine, one accepts things.-’^ 

Jones smiled at this. 

“ One accepts things,^^ he said, “ on one of two conditions.^^ 

“ Your conditions?'" demanded Mr. Delamere, leaning back 
in his chair and setting the tips of his . fingers delicately to- 
gether. 

“ That the things accepted should be either unavoidable or 
in themselves acceptable. " 

They were both clever men, Delamere and Jones, but they 
were. a weariness to my flesh and spirit. They would sit for 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


83 


hours solemnly trotting out for one another's admiration their 
commonplaces of the philosophical copy-book, until I tingled 
from head to foot. It seemed to me that the kind of converse 
they took delight in was either not very acceptable in itself or 
quite unalterable, and I knew that they were working their 
way toward the question of Pole^s marriage just as well as 
they did. 

“ Human nature, said Mr. Delamere, with that air of 
catholic wisdom and plenary allowance which is of all human 
aspects the most irritating and hateful to my mind— human 
nature is a poor,- mixed thing. 

“ Subtly compounded, sir,^^ said Jones; “ subtly com- 
pounded.^^ 

“ Solomon touches it,^^ said Delamere. The fly in the 
ointment; the fly in the ointment. One may have known a 
man for years — have watched him, have analyzed him, boasted 
to one’s self one’s understanding of him, when there comes 
some unlooked-for injection, and the chemical character of the 
whole human mass is changed. Now, for instance — ” 

Miss Delamere was busy at her embroidery and I at a little 
distance sat watching her as 1 listened. She had looked up 
once, and until now once only, and then our eyes had encoun- 
tered. A glance need not endure long to express many things, 
and for a very little space of time indeed, while she was uncon- 
scious of my gaze, her own expressed a most mournful lassitude, 
and despondency; but becoming aware of me she gave one of 
her bright, customary smiles of recognition, and went back to 
her embroidery. Now again, at this ‘‘for instance ” of her 
father’s, she looked up from her work, her forehead faintly 
knitted, and her whole face pained and puzzled. 

“ For instance,” Delamere went on, not noticing her, but 
turning with a gracious condescension upon me, “ this affair 
of your -friend Pole’s, Denham. I rather pride myself, not 
altogether, as I fancy, without reason, upon being something 
of a judge of character. I should have supposed your friend 
Pole to have been a man whose whole instincts would have 
been diametrically opposed to the facts as we now know them. 

1 should have regarded any such union as he has formed as 
being quite outside the sphere of possibility for him.” 

“ May one ask,” said Joiies, “ what virtues Mr. Pole was 
specially gifted with, which would have seemed to make this 
step impossible for him?” 

“ In the flrst place,” said Delamere, “ no man of lofty honor 
can contract a secret marriage. J had supposed Pole to be a 
man of lofty honor. ” 


84 THE WEAKER VESSEL. 

I said, in something like a tone of challenge, I am afraid, 
that Pole was a man of lofty honor. I added, warmly, that I 
knew no man whose code of honor was purer, or who better 
acted up to it. Before I had well spoken 1 was angrier with 
myself for having done so than I was at the stupidity of the 
pair who could not see that they were sticking pins and needles 
into the heart of their silent listener. 

Mr. Delamere raised his glasses in a way that indicated that 
he was not to be disturbed from his own philosophical serenity 
by the intrusion of any inferior intelligence upon his sphere of 
thought. The observation of this helped to cool me a little, 
for it threw a touch of humor into my thoughts; and though 
the humor was a little bitter it was more agreeable than mere 
anger. 

“ A man who contracts a secret marriage, pursued Dela- 
mere, “ necessarily imposes himself upon society under false 
pretenses. A man with such a tie upon him has no right to 
go into the world and move about in it as though he were 
unfettered. In a country whose social institutions resemble 
those of England — in a country, that is to say, where young- 
people of both sexes meet and mingle in a constant innocent 
freedom of intercourse, and where marriages are made, not by 
the maneuvering of parents, but chiefly by the choice and free- 
will of the contracting parties, the secret marriage of a young 
'man of wealth and position amounts to nothing less than a 
crime against society. You, or you,"'^ he turned from Jones 
to me, and addressed us each in turn, may be excused for 
supposing that a young lady in her choice of an associate for 
life ought not to be actuated by pecuniary consideration, or in- 
fluenced by rank. I do not stop to consider now whether a 
young lady should or should not permit her mind to be influ- 
enced by wealth and rank. I content myself by afiirming that 
the very large majority' are as a matter of fact so influenced.'’’ 

1 felt bound for two reasons, one of which was a great deal 
stronger than the other, to take a part in the talk and to ^ght 
Pole’s battle. The first reason, though it counted very little 
for the moment,, was founded on the friendship he and I had 
for one another. The second and the stronger was this: if X 
kept silence I was in danger of appearing to give a special sig- 
nificance to Delamere’s attack, and I was afraid that his 
daughter might attribute my silence to a fear of hurting her. 
So, in my guilty knowledge of her own sad secret, I had to 
take my share in wounding her in order not to wound. 

“ 1 beg your pardon, Mr. Delamere,” I said, with as respect- 
ful an air as 1 could muster, but you forget that Pole him- 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


85 


self divulged the secret, just as soon as wealth and rank seemed 
to be coming his way. What his reasons for concealment were 
at first I do not pretend to know, but you argue what you do 
know into what you can^t know in judging of a man as in 
judging of anything. Pole is a man of high honor — ergo, 
Pole had nothing dishonorable in his mind when he kept his 
marriage secret under conditions of which we are ignorant. 

I was so placed that I could see Miss Delamere^s face in the 
mirror, and 1 caught a look of gratitude for my defense of my 
friend. 

‘‘I, for one,^-’ said Mr. Mamere, coldly, “am not in- 
clined to be overstrained in m^deal of social duty, but 1 think 
your friend^s conduct inexcusable. Do you happen to know, 
Denham, he asked, a moment later, “ who is the — the per- 
son he has married 

1 answered in the negative, looking as natural and unembar- 
rassed as I could. Was it possible, I asked myself, that he 
could be blind to his daughter's pallor and languor and igno- 
rant of their cause? Every word we spoke must have been a 
pain to her, but nothing could be so painful as to guess that I 
knew of what she suffered. The two complacent philosophers 
went on, and I was compelled to look as stupid as they were 
in fact. My only chance for tact lay in seeming quite tactless, 
and I succeeded well enough to disarm suspicion in Miss Dela- 
mere^s mind. 

“For my own part,^^ she said, quietly and with complete 
self-possession, “ I tl^ink Mr. Pole very much to be pitied. I 
do not know if he is to be blamed as well. That is quite pos- 
sible, of course, but I donT think it very probable.'’^ 

“My dear Mary,^^ returned her father, “it is very neces- 
sary that you should form just views upon such a question as 
this. What are the conceivable reasons for a clandestine mar- 
riage? First, a mesalliance on one side or the other. Eext, 
an evasion of authority on one side or the other. Then con- 
sider that the deceit is carried into life, and becomes a part of 
it. No, n(^ I can not conceive of a secret marriage as the act 
of a high-minded man. 1 can understand, Denham, that you 
find the theme a painful one, and I admit that it would be 
quixotic to quarrel with a friend who will one day be able so 
favorably to infiuence your own career.-’^ 

I suppose it really would have been quixotic to have closed 
Delamere^s doors against myself by resenting his implied opin- 
ion of the value of my friendship. Any way I kept silence, 
though Joneses smile of assent almost forced me to unclose my 
lips. I had hardly ever been so angry in my life as this dull 


86 


THE WEAKER VESSEL, 


couple made me, but fortunately there came a diversion, and 
the question was laid on one side. Miss Grantley came in, 
and after a time, Delamere challenging Jones to a game at 
chess, they retired together to the smoking-room; and a little 
later Mary, gathering her belongings into a little basket- of 
quilted silk-work, slipped from the room, leaving us together 
for a time. 

Clara and I had come to that stage in which young people 
are aware already of what is uppermost in each other^s minds 
and are forced into an unusual air of camaraderie and free- 
dom. We talked with great gayety, with grisly silences be- 
tween, and would rather bretf these pauses by any kind of 
nonsense than leave them to grow intolerable. 

. “You used constantly to talk of your friend Mr. Pole, Mr. 
Denham, said Clara, in one such moment of extremity. 
“ You have not spoken of him all the evening. 

“We were talking of him at the moment of your arrival,'’^ 
I answered. “ Mr. Delamere spoke very angrily of him, and 
I defended him.'’ 

“You ought not to have defended him,” she answered, 
warmly. “I think he has behaved— 

She went no further, but it was enough for confirmation. 

“I can not see,'’^ I answered, “ that he behaved ill in any 
way. 1 know that he is profoundly unhappy, though he allows 
nobody to see it. 

“ A man may be unhappy,^^ she rejoined; “ but he has no 
right — ” And there she paused again. 

I was guilty of an ind.iscretion, but 1 can find ample excuses 
for myself. 

“No right to do what?^'’ I asked. She gave no answer. 
“No right to make others unhappy? Do you think. Miss 
Grantley, that he ever guessed it? He is not a coxcomb who 
goes about in fear of breaking ladies'’ hearts. ” 

“You say very odd things, Mr. Denham,” she answered, 
with an air of fine simplicity, and the most barefaced pretense 
of not understanding me, and of having offered ho provoca- 
tion for this outburst. “I am not likely to be brought to 
your opinion of Mr. Pole. I think him very horrid.” 

“You are quite wise not to understand me,” I answered, 
and turned the conversation. She was content to escape from 
her own share of the responsibility of entering upon it, but as 
our intimacy grew this broken beginning of confidence was 
taken up again. I don^t know at this day how our own court- 
ship would have grown if it had not been for the unhappy 
heart-affairs of Pole and Mary Delamere. We should have 


THE WEAKER YESSEL. 


87 


found some other way to sympathy, no doubt, but, as it hap- 
pened,/ that was the road we traveled. Her love for Mary and 
my affection for Pole led us back to the theme a thousand 
times, and by and by we talked of it openly to each other and 
with no pretense of disguise. She was Mary Delamere^s one 
confidante, and even she, it seems, was left to guess a prodig- 
ious deal more than she was told. Of course 1 knew we were 
a sinfully indiscreet and curious young couple to talk of the 
affairs of others as we did; but then we had countless exam- 
ples, and we were on such a^ooting of intimacy that we had 
no secrets from each other, with the exception of one which 
was rather less of a secret to our world at large then even to 
ourselves. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Jones, who in Pole’s phrase came Sebastian Dolmering into 
my chambers pretty often, came down one day about a month 
after the disclosure in a nlore than commonly sprightly humor. 
I had never liked him from the first hour, but he seemed to 
be altogether unconscious of a want of friendly warmth on my 
part, and was himself so uniformly amiable that it was impos- 
sible to quarrel with him. There was indeed nothing special 
about which we could have quarreled. Jones was a humbug, 
but then there are so many humbugs in the world that if a 
man took it upon himself to quarrel with all of them whom he 
encountered he would have his hands full. The sterner sort 
of moralist may, if he pleases, decline to hold intercourse with 
all men who do not come up to his own lofty standard. The 
average creature, conscious of his own imperfections, must rub 
along with such society as he can get, and take folks as he 
finds them. Cousidering how very little Jones ever cared for 
me, and considering that I had at best a dormant contempt 
for Jones, it was really remarkable to see how well we got on 
together. 

He was always wonderfully attired, and his appointments 
were as finished and natty as those of the finest fine lady. He 
used to smoke cigarettes of scented tobacco bound in rose-col- 
ored paper, and he carried about him numberless little knick- 
knacks for personal use. One of his favorite occupations was 
to polish his nails, and for that purpose he carried about' with 
him a tiny gold-plated box of some sort of powder and a little 
pad of leather. He would polish and polish while he talked of 
art and the destinies of humanity and' other noble and inspir- 
ing themes, and would make his shining nails gleam this way 


88 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


and that way by . turning them against the light, and would 
admire them with his head on one side, while he paused for a 
descriptive phrase or rounded a denunciatory period. 

Early in our acquaintance I used to have almost unconquer- 
able impulses to assault Jones while he aired these engaging 
little ways of his. But in awhile they ceased to exasperate, 
and in a, little while further began to amuse, and then to 
soothe. It was consolatory to reflect that in the depth of 
one^s daily descents into imbecility one never fell to that; so 
that at the most despondent moments Jones came as a sort of 
invigorator, toning the moral systeftn, and bringing encourage- 
ment to the feeble. 

On this particular day he came in, as 1 have said, in an un- 
usually sprightly humor. He cracked a gentle joke or two, 
and that bespoke the very highest spirits in him, an almost 
reckless abandonment to gayety. As a rule, Jones was afraid 
of a joke, and would almost as soon have sat in the same 
room with a humorist as with a mixed barrel of lucifer 
matches and fire- works. Pole, for instance, who had much 
more of a habit of thinking than of talking humorously, made 
Jones uncomfortable by his very aspect. He looked danger- 
ous. There was never any knowing when, and in what direc- 
tion, he might explode, and Joneses mental jDarlor was trim 
and decorous, and full of fragile curios. He had no liking 
for the exhibition of catherine-wheels and sky-rockets in that 
delicately furnished but limited inclosure. 

I told him how bright he looked, and how uncommonly gay 
he was, and he smiled back, well pleased, pulling off his pretty 
lemon-colored gloves in the finest and most lady-like manner. 
He examined his finger-nails with scrupulous exactitude, smiled 
in the mirror to inspect his teeth, arranged his hair with a few 
dexterous feminine coaxings of the palms and fingers, and then 
lighted one of his pretty little cigarettes, and sat down. I was 
positively pleased to see him. For the first time I realized for 
myself the peculiar nature of his charm. 

1 felt it at once a duty and a privilege to make the most of 
him, and I tried to start him upon the question of the pro- 
posed revolution in the cut and color of evening-dress. Here 
he disappointed me. He spoke of it with a fervor which was 
too obviously unreal. The stream was too far from its source, 
and it flowed with a mournful paucity and languor. I tried 
to start him on the larger theme of the regeneration of the 
soul by means of Japanese lacquer and the best Dresden. 
Even here he would not dance to my piping with anything of 
his accustomed spirit and agility. In fine, it became evident 


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89 


that there was something upon Joneses mind, and in awhile, 
after a circuitous fashion, it came out. 

Strange, said Jones, after a pause of some duration, 

how closely the development of the individual soul follows 
the laws which govern the development of the inert con- 
glomerate mass.^^ 

I assented, and, like Brer Babbit, I lay low, and waited. 

Conditions, s&id Jones, ‘‘ which even an acute observer 
would suppose to be permanent turn out to be transitory. 
When^ one says permanent,^^ he added, with his explana- 
tory air, which was always delightfully comforting to his list- 
ener's amour propre, ‘’one doesn^t use the word, of course, 
with any pretense to scientific accuracy. Permanence, like 
other conditions, is only- relative, and is impossible in the ab- 
stract. 

I said that it was very nice to know this; and Jones, who 
was too firmly seated on horseback to teke note of any pebble 
in his conversational charger^ s track, rode on unregardful. 

I had supposed myself to be fully convinced upon one or 
two social questions upon which I now discover that my mind 
has undergone a change, imperceptible to myself in its proc- 
esses, and yet radical. 

I said that I was very pleased to hear it, I was sure; and he 
went on, taking no more note of me than if he had been the 
hero in a Greek drama and I the chorus. 

‘‘ Take, for instance, said Jones, delicately, ‘‘ the question 
of marriage. I am not, as a matter of course, so mad or so 
blind as to attach any value to the absurd sanctions of the 
Church or the fallacious conclusions of society. 

I was quite sure that Jones was superior to those feeble- 
nesses, and I said as much with warmth. For the first time 
he took notice of me, and seemed gratified by this testimonial. 

At this moment Pole, who had been back from Worborough 
Court a week or two, strolled in without announcement of him- 
self, and took a seat with one leg on either side a chair and 
his elbows on the back of it. He nodded to each of us, but 
said nothing. Jones, 1 thought, was momentarily disconcerted 
by the sight of him, but went on directly, with some exaggera- 
tion of his best lady-like tone and manner. 

“ Yet,^'’ he continued, “ I have begun to think of late that 
it is not well too suddenly to combat the preconceptions of 
average mankind. One can, of course, use satire, but it needs 
to be delicate and veiled, and the average man is, I fancy, un- 
susceptible to satire. 

“ There are people, I ventured to say at this juncture, see- 


90 


THE WEAKER VESSEjL 


ing that Jones was perhaps a little unsteady in his seat to his 
own fancy and needed bolstering there — “ there are people on 
whom satire produces little effect. Some of them are clever 
in a way; rooted fools by nature, who bear a weedy little blos- 
som of wit, and suppose themselves to flower all over, like 
rhododendrons in the season. 

There, said Jones, “ you touch the very men 1 have in 
mind. The average stupid man is not halj so bad to deal with 
as the man who bears that single flower of wit you speak of. 
For my own part, I am a bit of a philosopher. I am not 
merely open to conviction, which is the first attitude of com- 
mon sense, but I am willing to give and take, to pay tithe of 
mint, and anise, and cummin, even to the false deity of popu- 
lar convention. I am willing to concede that though by lend- 
ing the force of one’s example to a doubtful practice one may 
delay the hour of its abolition, yet it is possible to subscribe to 
a social usage if it should not be too harmful to the general 
interest, and, having, subscribed to it, still hold the right of 
holding up one’s testimony against it. Marriage,” he con- 
tinued, passing his hand through his lustrous Italian locks, 
and dividing them tenderly, “has become precisely one of 
those questions to my mind, though a little while ago T should 
scarcely have thought such an allowance possible or desirable.” 

“ He has come in out of the desert,” said Pole. “ He has 
consented to be taken in and curry-combed. ” 

I do not think that the Rev. Laurence Sterne was likely to 
be one of Jones’s literary favorites, and so it is’ possible that 
the true nuance of Pole’s allusion escaped him. He went on, 
apparently unmoved. 

“ There are men,” he said, “ so pachydermatous by nature, 
and by cultivation or the want of it, that they are not to be 
touched by any shaft of reason.” 

“ You might,” said Pole, “ explode a fifty-six-pound shell 
in the interior of some of them and they’d go on quite calmly 
without the merest notion that anything had happened. ” 

Jones assented, cordially. 

“ Upoii my word,” he said, “ there are people of that pat- 
tern. But, for my own part, as I -said before, I am open to 
conviction. 1 am willing to give and take. ” 

“1 am willing,” said Pole, who was evidently in a bitter 
humor, and ready to relieve himself by any persiflage which 
might occur to him, “ to take anything I can lay my hands 
on.” 

Jones cast a sideway glance of friendly allowance at him. 

. “In this matter of marriage,” he pursued, “the whole 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


91 


question, as a matter of course, is a matter of contract. There 
are two personalities to be considered, and the stronger has, by 
reason of its very strength; a right to be allowing and indulgent 
to the weaker vessel. 

I knew that there was nothing in Joneses speech up till now 
to give me the merest hint of the intention he was trying in 
his own roundabout way to express. But that phrase about 
the weaker vessel hit me hard I had used it to Pole by hazard, 
an^ it was its employment which had led to the explanation 
between us. I looked at Pole nervously, but he had evidently 
allowed it to pass without notice, as was only natural. I was 
so certain in my own mind of the truth of my own fancy, and 
was so embarrassed by it, that I began at once to move about 
the room as if the conversation had reached a natural end, and 
there was no more to say. But Pole, having no share in my 
fancies and no divination of them, carried on the theme. He 
had grown very mocking and bitter of late, even with me, 
though never against me. 

“ I suppose, he said, looking at Jones, “ you havenT been 
so cruel as to make the tidings of your conversion public prop- 
erty?^'’ 

So cruel?’ ^ said Jones, inquiringly. 

“ So cruel,” answered Pole. You haven’t awakened ex- 
pectations in a million tender bosoms which can only be ful- 
filled for one?” Jones said nothing, but smilingly lighted a 
new cigarette, and cast the remnant of the old one into the 
fire. “ You’re going to get married, Jones?” Pole went on. 

I say, Denham, there’s a public-house at the corner.. Let’s 
go down, all three of us, and drink a pot of stout apiece to the 
health of Jones’s future missis. ” 

‘^Upon my word, Pole,” said Jones, ‘‘one would hardly 
think that you had been bred a gentleman.” 

“ We’re all of the same base metal; Jones,” Pole answered, 
“ but the electroplate gets rubbed off some of us. There’s an 
epergne belonging to a bachelor uncle of mine in which all the 
cherub’s noses are fiat with their faces, though they are made 
of solid silver. I dare say they had the prettiest outlines once 
upon a time. There’s no knowing what even you may come 
to. When 1 contrast what you are. with what you might have 
been, and what you may be, I could weep, upon my word of 
honor. ” 

It seemed to me so very probable that Jones would by and 
by become aware of Pole’s intention to insult him, and the in- 
tention in itself was so very obvious to me, that I feigned sud- 
denly to remember an appointment. At this, Jones got up to 


92 


THE WEAKEK VESSEL. 


go, and I left with him, bidding him good-bye at the end of 
the court, and darting into Chancery Lane as if in a mighty 
hurry. When the threatened quarrel was averted I was still 
very far from being at ease; and though I tried to attach no 
more value to my fancies than I could help, they clung to me 
•with a ridiculous persistence. They worried me so much at 
last that, when 1 had dined alone, I betook myseK to Crom- 
well Terrace. Mr. Delamere was dining out that evening, and 
Mary and Clara were alone together. When we had talked ior 
a little while, our hostess slipped away, as she had got into a 
habit of doing, and left the two young people to themselves. 

I had no ground to go on, but the question was so near my 
heart that I must needs approach it. 

‘‘Mr. Jones, I said, as' lightly as I could, “honored my 
rooms this afternoon. 

“ Pray,^ ^ returned Clara, with an acerbity and decision 1 
had never noticed in her till then, “ donT talk to me of Mr. 
Jones. I have heard enough of Mr. Jones to last my life- 
time. . 

In spite of this command I ventured to ask if Jones had dis- 
tinguished himself in such a way of late as to earn this marked 
increase of her displeasure. 

“ Now, Mr. Denham,'’^ said Miss Grahtley, decisively, “ I 
want you to understand that I shall look upon any pressure 
on this point as being unfriendly. I am literally dying to tell 
you all about it, and if you press me I shall give way. I know 
1 shall, and I know that I ought not to. I’m sure that you 
are not the man to endanger a poor girl’s self-respect.” 

Whether the reader chooses to believe it or not, 1 accepted 
this as a prohibition, and found another theme for converse. 
But Miss Grantley fidgeted, and if one can say it of so gentle a 
creature, grew absolutely snappish. The dull, inapprehensive 
male intelligence was at a loss. I was meek and submissive, 
but full of doubts and wonders, not guessing what I could pos- 
sibly have done to ruffle a temper commonly so gentle. 

“ You are very stupid this evening, Mr. Denham,” she said, 
with a voice of dreary resignation. 

“Am I?” I answered. “I am afraid 1 am. You seem 
vexed. What have I done to vex you?” 

I went on to say that I would rather do a variety of particu- 
larized things than cause her a moment’s annoyance. She 
relented and explained, though still with a lingering touch of 
ill-humor. 

“I tell you,” she said, “ that I am dying to tell you some- 
thing, and I tell you that I ought not to say anything ‘about it.” 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


93 


“You begged me not to press you/^ I answered, “ and I 
did not. 

“ Precisely, she said, dropping back into a corner of the 
sofa in a sort of languid, comic despair. 

“Oh!'"’ I said, beginning to be enlightened, “ I ought to 
have asked? I ought to have pressed you?"’"' A gleam of re- 
turning cheerfulness displayed itself in her countenance, and 
Was instantly dismissed. “ Let me beg of you to tell me,’^ I 
implored, with mock earnestness. “ I am consumed by curi- 
osity. If you refuse this prayer I can not answer for the con- 
sequences.^^ 

“ In that case,^^ she replied, demurely, “ I can reveal my 
secret. I can not bear to see a fellow-creature suffer. 

She clasped her hands, and, leaning forward, murmured, 
with a subdued intensity of scorn: 

“ Mr. Jones has had the insolence to propose to MaryDela- 
mere. 

“ I hope with all my heart/^ said I, “ that Miss Delamere 
will not throw herself away upon him.^^ 

“ I told her, when I heard of it,^' said this resolute young 
person, who was sprouting this evening with unexpected char- 
acteristics, “ that I would never speak to her again if she, did. 
There was not the slightest need to say so, for Mary has no 
more thought of uniting herself to that tinkling cymbal than 
I have. 

I confess that I was not in tha least sorry for Joneses blight- 
ed hopes. I did not think that any purpose he might form 
was likely to take great hold upon him. His sentiments were 
not of the sort that plant a terrible fixed foot, and are not 
rooted up without blood. I could fancy Jones deserting any 
sandy anchorage he might find, and getting under way, with 
little compunction or regret, for other shores. 

“ Mary,'’^ said Clara, decisively, but with a touch of very 
warm and very real sympathy, ‘ ‘ has troubles enough of her 
own and to spare already. As for what they are, that is no 
business of yours or mine or anybody^’s. I don’t know, I’m 
sure, how such a girl came to have such a father. Mr. Dela- 
mere is wrapped up in his precious godson. They sit together, 
and the Sounding Brass flatters the Tinkling Cymbal, and the 
Tinkling Cymbal flatters the Sounding Brass, until I declare 
that my fingers itch to box the ears of both of them. I give 
you my word of honor, Mr. Denham, ” she concluded, with an 
air of deep contrition, “ there are moments when the contem- 
plation of that pair makes me feel quite unlady-like.” 

I had never allowed myself so much latitude ol expression 


94 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


with respect to Messrs. Delamere and Jones, but I accepted 
Miss Grantley^s description with such cordiality that she was 
encouraged to continue. 

We have had a lecture from papa this morning, she said. 

It was my privilege to hear it.'’^ She assumed, upon a sud' 
den, so ludicrous a resemblance to the Delamere voicje and 
manner that I laughed aloud. I saw the dangled pinQe-7iez 
swinging to and fro in the imitative fingers. It perched at 
times with a solemn grace upon the pert and pretty little nose, 
which somehow, to my wonderment, contrived for the moment 
to look like the aristocratically refined beak of the great critic. 
But the words to me were the richest part of the imitation. 
“ Strange,^' she began, in the Delamere voice, how closely 
the development of the individual soul follows the laws which 
govern the development of the inert conglomerate mass. 

“ Wait, wait!^^ I cried. Allow me. Conditions, I pur- 
sued, ‘ ^ which even an acute observer would suppose to be per- 
manent turn out to be transitory. When one says permanent, 
one does not use the word, of course, with any pretense of 
scientific accuracy. 

Her eyes glittered, and she rose to her feet, dancing in a 
very revel of mirth. 

He has been with you this afternoon, she said. “ He has 
poured all this out upon you. ‘ Oh, theyh’e delicious. They 
make me so angry that I feel ashamed and wicked. But oh I 
I wouldn't miss them for the World!" 

On the very top of this declaration Jones entered smilingly. 
I blessed my stars for his sake that he had not arrived a mo- 
ment earlier. He had the run of the house, and came in and 
out like a member of the family, so that perhaps it was a little 
dangerous to discuss him with too much freedom there. Miss 
Grantley's mirth was changed by a sudden transformation. 
To have looked at her a second after J ones's arrival, one would 
have supposed her incapable of merriment. 

“ Miss Delamere?" said Jones, in his silvery voice, smiling 
from one to the other of us. 

“I believe,'-' replied Miss Grantley, with a sudden over- 
whelming stateliness, “ that Miss Delamere has retired to her 
own room. I think it is not her intention to return again this 
evening. I wish you good-iiight, Mr. Denham. '^' 

With that she sailed from the apartment, leaving Jones and 
myself looking at each other a trifie foolishly. 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


95 


CHAPTER XV. 

The winter had been unusually severe, and the spring 
seemed to delay itself unconscionably. Every week the news- 
papers recorded the death of some elderly celebrity. Fog, rain, 
protracted frost, east winds, made havoc among the old and 
feeble. Lord Worborough was going. The impending title 
and great fortune hung over Pole, it would have seemed, like 
a threatening shadow. I am certain that he was so far from 
desiring either of them that if he could have seen a reason- 
able way of evading them he would willingly have taken it. 
Twice he went down to Worborough Court, and each time 
spent a week there in expectation of the old man^s demise. 
His lordship rallied, and Pole came back again, melancholy 
and bitter. He told me, at a moment when his mood was a 
little less harsh than it had grown commonly to be in those 
-days, that Lord Worborough laid that unhappy marriage very 
much to heart. He was the seventh holder of the title, and 
had hoped that it would be transmitted through a long line. 

“Iks a dream,^^ said Pole. “It doesnT matter much to 
him, poor old fellow. Whether the line may be extended or 
cut short will make no difference to him when he is tucked 
away under his green bed-clothes.'’^ 

He spoke very affectionately of the old man always, and to 
any one who had seen them together it was evident that' his 
lordship, however disappointed he might be, had formed a very 
strong liking for the man who was to come after him. 

It was raining heavens hard one memorable afternoon late in 
April, when Pole and I sat reading together, or making a pre- 
tense to read, in his chambers. A knock sounded at th^e door, 
and I, being the nearer of the two, rose to open it. The vis- 
itor, of all unexpected men in the world, was the little Jew 
solicitor. Goldsmith. He wore a mackintosh shining with rain 
from heel to shoulder, and carried a drippling umbrella in his 
hand. There was a very unusual and remarkable expression 
in his face, a look which impressed me very strongly, though 
I could neither analyze nor define it. He was pale, and labor- 
ing under some strongly suppressed excitement. He might, 
by the look of^him, have been going to be hanged. 

He walked past me into the room, leaving his umbrella in 
the stand, and when I had closed the door and entered after 
him, he was standing beside. Pole, who, with an expression of 
surprised disdain, was looking at him over one shoulder. 


96 


THE WEAKER VESSEI. 


said Pole, curtly and contemptuously, “what is 
your business ' 

“Bister Pole,^^ said Goldsmith, whose breathing was hard 
and thick, like that of a man who has been ruiining beyond 
his pace, “ there are moments when rancor comes to nothing 
betweed gentlemen. 

“ Are there, indeed?^^ asked Pole. 

“ There are, indeed,'-’^ Goldsmith responded. 

The little dewy’s aspect , had an influence upon Pole, as I 
could see plainly. He rose with an indefinable look, and, 
wheeling his chair half round, rested one knee upon the seat, 
and with both hands grasping the back, surveyed the intruder. 

“ I suppose, he said, “ that fou have some sort of business 
here. Will you be good enough to get it over?^^ 

Por sole answer Goldsmith, with trembling fingers, began to 
unbutton his wet water-proof. The noise of his b^reathing, the 
ticking of a clock upon the mantel-piece, and the clatter of a 
burning coal which fell upon the fender, were the only audible 
sounds. Either Goldsniith^s agitation made’ him clumsy, or 
the buttons of the water-proof were unusually refractory. He 
conquered them at last, and, producing a pocket-book from 
an inner pocket, he advanced a step or two and laid it on the 
table. It opened with a spring clasp, and revealed a bulky 
mass of paper. , His agitated fingers wandered among these, 
leaving wet marks upon them, until at last he selected one 
from the rest, opened it, and laid it upon the table before Pole. 
I looked at Pole^s face, and saw a sudden dreadful change in 
it. He glanced from the paper to Goldsmith, from Goldsmith 
to me, and back to the paper again, like a man dazed by a 
blow upon the head. Then recovering, he took the paper — a 
long blue slip — in both hands, and stared at it for a minute. 
After this he stretched it out to me, saying nothing. 

Goldsmith’s strained manner, and Pole’s extraordinary re- 
ception of the document, had prepared me to fin d curious mat- 
ter in it, but I had not in the least expected what I saw. It 
was a copy of the certificate of the death of Adelaide Pole. I 
looked at the date, and saw that the event had happened a 
week ago. 

“ She seebs,” said Goldsmith, who was more moved than I 
should have fancied possible about such a matter, “ to have 
gone off very quietly at the finish, poor thing.” 

I glanced at the certificate again, ahd saw that spinal injury 
and shock were assigned as the causes of death. Pole took the 
paper from my fingers, and sat down, as if to study it. The 


THE WEAKEE VESSEL. 97 

certificate rustled in his hands, and in a little while he laid it 
on the table and looked up at Goldsmith. 

‘‘ How is it,""^ he asked, “ that I did not learn of this be- 
fore 

Goldsmith, before answering, turned over the papers from 
his pocket-book and selected another from among them. His 
hands trembling more than ever, and his face was curiously 
mottled. 

“I was in the country when the thing took place,- Bister 
Pole,'’"’ he said, in a choked voice, “ I was going about from 
one town to another on business, and my letters got delayed. 
1 didn^t hear of the melancholy qircubstance till four days after 
it occurred. Then I dispatched this telegram to my chief 
clerk. I only got back to town this morning. I thought it 
was best to bring the news personally.^-’ 

Pole took the telegram the little Jew extended to him, and, 
having glanced over it, handed it to me. It ran -thus: “ Moss, 
215 Hatton Garden. From Goldsmith, Chester. Let funeral 
be decently conducted. Will myself communicate with hus- 
band. 

“ This,"” said Goldsmith, fumbling anew among his papers 
and selecting a third document, “ is the certificate of burial. 
1 donT know. Bister Pole, whether you’d care to have any sort 
of memorial set up, or whether you’ll take that into your own 
hands?” 

His voice grew more muffled and tremulous as he spoke, and 
he had some ado to gather up the papers he had scattered 
about the table. I had never expected to find such sensibility 
in the man, and I thought that his emotion did him credit. It 
was quite possible that he might have supposed Mrs. Pole to 
be a deeply injured woman, and that in the course of the serv- 
ices he had rendered her he had grown to be a partisan: The 
poor thing had no doubt told her story to her own advantage, 
had exculpated herself, and cast all blame upon her husband. 
That,, of course, was natural, and it was not unnatural that 
Goldsmith should have believed in her, and have been shocked 
and grieved at her sudden and early death. He must at least, 
I thought, have cared vastly more for her than the ordinary 
solicitor cares for an ordinary client. 

He had gathered his belongings together, and stood prepared 
to go. Pole had risen to his feet, and was walking slowly and 
thoughtfully up and down the room. 

‘‘ There’s a mere matter of business. Bister Pole,” said 
Goldsmith, haltingly, “ if I might bedtion it at such a tibe. 
I’ve, sent your check for Mrs. Pole’s quarterly income to my 

4 


98 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


bankers in the ordinary course. The poor lady only drew on 
me for a fortnight, and thereTl be something left when every- 
thing is paid. ITl send in my account, and a check for the 
balance. I wish you good-afternoon. Bister Pole — good-after- 
noon, Bistor Denham. 

We both returned , his parting salutation, and Pole’s voice 
had a tone of unusual gentleness in it, almost of apology. The 
little Jew went his way, and we were left to ourselves. 

For a loug time not a word was spoken — I dare say, indeed, 
that we sat in silence for an hour. Pole had mechanically 
taken up ‘his book again, and sat staring at the open pages; 
but he never turned a leaf. When at last he looked up at me 
his eyes were moist, and there was a softened look in his face. 

Jack,” he said, “ will you come out with me?” 

I answering in the affirmative, he promised to join me in 
five minutes, and I went down-stairs to my own rooms, and 
there made ready for out-of-doors. It was raining in torrents, 
still when we turned out upon Holborn. Pole hailed a cab, 
and gave the cabman instructions to drive to the cemetery at 
Kensal Green. The rain pelted down monotonously, racing 
in little rivulets down the glass before us, and blotting out the 
landscape of the streets. We were both unusually subdued, 
and neither had anything to say to the other. It was too early 
after the receipt of the news to experience anything of that 
sense of relief which it was ultimately bound to bring, and for 
my own part I should have resented any such sensation in my- 
self as an impiety. I thought of the poor creature’s threat to 
Pole, “ I will make your life a burden to you,” and I reflected 
on its futility, and on the uncertainty of all human promise, 
whether for good or evil. Her life must needs have been pro- 
foundly wretched to have left such an impress on her face as I 
remembered. The certificate of death gave her age at twenty- 
eight years. I had supposed her to be much older, for the set 
scorn and hatred and hard misery of her face seemed scarcely 
possible for one so young. Looking back upon the face as I 
remembered it, it was evident that it had oncje been superbly 
handsome. 1 thought of youth and beauty defaced and ruined 
by self-will and the one vice to which the unhappy woman had 
clung, and now that she was gone, and could work no evil any 
more, I pitied that brief life-tragedy profoundly. I knew — 
there vvas no need of words between us — that Pole’s thoughts 
ran in the same channel as my own. Once, his hand falling 
accidentally upon mine, he clasped it very strongly and firmly; 
but that was the only sign that was made on either side. 

We reached the cemetery, and having made inquiries at the 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


99 


lodge as to the whereabouts of the grave, we walked toward it. 
The rain-soaked mound of newly turned earth looked very raw 
and desolate. There is nothing in the world so desolate to 
look at as a new-made grave. I have looked on many since 
that day, and some of them have covered the remains of those 
who have been very dear to me, yet I have never felt the sense 
so clearly. i 

We turned away in silence and went home. The man at the 
lodge stood sheltered from the rain in his own door-way, and 
looked at us, I thought, a little callously. Yet, of course, it 
was no affair of his, and usage makes the griefs of others of 
little weight to us. 

In my affection for Pole, and in the* ardor with which I 
espoused his cause, I had gone as near to hating that unhappy 
wife of his as I had ever gone to hating anybody. But now 
that she could work no more mischief, my thoughts softened 
toward her. In the course of a day ot two Pole began to talk 
about her in a chastened way, and it became evident that he 
had once held a very real affection for her. He told me, bit 
by bit, the whole story of their separation. It is not necessary 
to repeat it here, and there are too many cases like it in the 
world to make it novel enough to be worth the telling. The 
sordid, miserable history of drink and an ungovernable temper, 
the sorriest, meanest, ugliest of tragedies, a tale worth no 
many’s relating and no many’s hearing. He told it gently and 
with pity, and when it was once told we closed the page which 
held the story, and resolved (as we thought) to turn back to 
it no more. ^ 

My friend charged me with the performance of the last dues 
of respect, and went down to Worborough Court, leaving me 
alone in London. I followed the instructions he left with me, 
and in the meantime his letters bore but one allusion to the 
event of his wife’s death. “Lord Worborough,” he wrote, 
“ was relieved at the news I had to give him, and I sincerely 
believe that the mere fact of this grief being lifted from his 
mind may add a year or two to his life. He has taken an ex- 
traordinary liking to me, and I could find it in my heart to 
wish that we had known each other longer. I shall probably 
spend most of my time with him now, for the old boy clings 
to me, and he is really such a fine and noble old fellow that I 
am almost as fond of him as he of me. He suffers a great 
deal, but he is very game about it, and altogether he is the 
very finest specimen of the fine old English gentleman it has 
been my luck to encounter anywhere. I hope heTl fiourish 
for many a day to come. ” 


100 


THE WEAKER VESSEL, 


It is not good to think of the death of any human creature 
being hailed, no matter with what inward reluctance, as a re- 
lief, but Mrs. Pole^s departure lifted a dreadful shadow from 
the hearts of those who had been most concerned with her, and 
it would have been sheer hypocrisy to have professed to mourn 
her. To forgive, and then, as speedily as might be, to forget, 
was all she could have asked from the world. 

Six or seven weeks later, when the skies had cleared, and 
the long-deferred early summer was upon us, shining with 
such a splendor as half obliterated the memory of cold and 
storm, I paid a second and final visit to the cemetery at Ken- 
sal Green. I had a companion — a companion too light and 
young for a visit to that home of mournful memories. But 
Clara and I had spoken so often of Pole^s freedom, and in the 
mind of each there was so evident a result to spring from it, 
that she had grown as interested as I myself was; and when 1 
made that final, necessary visit to the place to see that Pole^s 
injunctions had been properly fulfilled, she needed little per- 
suasion to accompany me. 

When^ I had last seen the place it had seemed the very home 
of desolation; but now, with the bright May sunshine and the 
bright May flowers, and the chirjDing of innumerable birds, it 
had another aspect, and seemed to speak with a voice of tender 
reconciliation to the inevitable doom. God’s Acre! 

The grave was neatly railed. The new-laid turf was bright 
and green, and flowers shoiie above it and diffused their gentle 
odors. The stone bore a simple inscription — “ In Memory of 
Adelaide Pole ” — then the date of death and the age, and be- 
low the three words, “ Here is Rest!” Rest was possible for 
the living as well as for the dead, and I suppose that Pole had 
chosen that brief inscription with some eye to its double mean- 
ing. 

As we had walked together I had related to Clara, as far as 
I could do without shocking her, the story Pole had told me. 
She had been very strongly prejudiced against him, and had 
been more inclined to champion the wife’s cause than the hus- 
band’s. I had ventured to hint shyly of my certainty of Pole’s 
affections for Miss Delamere, and I went so far as to indicate 
my belief that the affection was returned. We were both sad- 
dened and solemnized by our visit to the place, and yet there 
was a sense of our own affection in our minds. My wife has 
told me, long ago, that she was certain, even before that day, 
of mj love for ner, and I remember well a sort of trembling 
certainty of hers. We walked about the place of graves in the 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


101 


sunshine with our own hearts beating to that eternal, beautiful 
tune to whose music the whole world marches. It was more 
solemn than it often sounds, and gentler, but it sounded all 
the same. 

I pleaded Pole's cause with her. It was unlikely that he 
would speak for a long time to come, but I begged her not to 
use any influence she might have with Miss Delamere against 
him. 

“ If she cares for him," I . urged, ‘‘ you can only grieve her, 
but can never change her mind. ” And, standing before the 
tombstone, I appealed to her. “ There is rest here," I said. 
‘‘ Let the living have rest as well. " 

She answered, in a subdued voice: 

‘‘ I believe that Mary cared for him before she knew of his 
unhappy marriage. I believe that she will never care for any- 
body else. I am quite sure that nothing any one could say 
could alter her, for she is not a girl to he moved by anybody's 
words. " 

“ Then, at least," 1 answered, you will say nothing that 
could give her pain. There is no higher-minded, nobler- 
hearted man in the world than Pole." 

‘‘ Why should I say a word to hurt her?" she asked me. 
“ She is the dearest friend I have in the world." 


OHAPTEE XVI. 

Calling one evening at Cromwell Terrace, about a fort- 
night after the incident just recorded, I found Miss Delamere 
alone. I had not the slightest doubt in the world that she un- 
derstood perfectly well the reasons for my frequent visits there, 
and yet I was too shy to ask if Clara were at home. She held 
me mischievously in suspense for a time. 

“ Do you know," she asked, at length, that we have a 
visitor here? A lady arrived this afternoon to whom I expect 
you to pay great attentions. I want you very much to impress 
her favorably. In point of fact," she added, laughingly, ‘‘1 
expect you to pay court to her with great assiduity." 

I said something to the effect that her wishes were likd^ to 
be disappointed; but she shook her head at this, with a perfect 
decision of certainty. 

‘‘ You will no sooner have seen this lady," she told me, 
‘‘than you will make love to her. You will endeavor, by 
every means in your power, to ingratiate yourself in her 
favor. " 

“ Because you wish it?" I inquired. 


103 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


“ Not in the least because I wish it,” she answered enigmat- 
ically, “ though I do wish it, all the same/^ 

While I was still wonderiog who tliis visitor might be, and 
for what object I was expected to be unusually polite and 
amiable to her, the door opened, and Clara entered with her 
arm about the waist of a lady of five-and-forty, whom I at once 
recognized from her portrait and from her likeness to Clara. 
Mrs. Grantley had snow-white hair, and at a little distance 
looked much older than she really was. But she had bright 
eyes, perfect teeth, and a dazzling natural complexion which 
made her, when seen near at hand, look much younger than 
she really was. She had something of the air of a pretty wom- 
an of eight-and-twenty masquerading as a matron. 

I was introduced to her, and was cordially enough received, 
though the politeness of her demeanor barely seemed to cover 
the particular closeness of the scrutiny to which I was sub- 
jected. The bright *eyes traveled swiftly and decisively all over 
me, and I felt as if I were being weighed in the balances, and, 
in all respects, found wanting. We four sat down together 
and talked. I was aware of a desperate attempt on the part 
of Clara and Miss Delamere to put me at my ease, and 1 am 
sure that if no such attempt had been made I should have got 
there much earlier than I did. Clara was in a state of such 
high good spirits, and was withal so shy and discomposed by 
moments, that I was sure that mamma had already been taken 
into confidence. 

In awhile I grew to be more myself, and the remainder of 
the evening passed agreeably enough. I was invited to luncheon 
on the morrow, but I had no opportunity of seeing Clara alone 
that evening. She and her mother retired early while I was 
saying my good-byes to Miss Delamere; and Mary, who was 
looking brighter and happier than I had seen her for a long 
time, took me gently to task as to my gaucherie in the earlier 
part of the evening. 

“ Pray,'^ I besought her, “ never try to put me at my ease 
again. There is nothing in the world so disconcerting. 

Sh^ laughed at this, but promised, and I went away, cheered 
by her assurance that I had not made an unfavorable impres- 
sion. This comfortable belief did not linger long. As I 
walked homeward I recalled everything that had been said and 
done, and remembered how I had been silent in the wrong 
places and talkative in the wrong places. I reconstructed the 
whole conversation of the evening half a score of times, and 
came through triumphantly, delivering myself of the most pro- 
found and brilliant observations, and covering myself with 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


loa- 


glory. Then onoe (to the profound, astonishment of a loung- 
ing cabman on his box). I moaned aloud to think that my actual 
conduct had been so far removed from my ideal. I pursued 
this dreary and unprofitable exercire through half the night, 
and when I got to sleep dreamed that 1 had fallen so com- 
pletely under the bane of Mrs. Grantley^s disapproval that she 
was actually on her knees before Mr. :I)elamere, begging him, 
with tears, to use his influence in placing me in an asylum. 
Mr. Delamere declined, but Jones came suddenly from no- 
where, and offered smilingly to do the thing at once, taking so 
evident a pleasure in it that my indignation awoke me. The 
satire of my dream was so far overdone that it did much to re- 
store my equilibrium. Things would hardly come to that pass, 
I thought, and fell to sleep again, a little comforted. 

I had never, so far as I can remember, been once assailed 
until now by the temptations of the demon of dandyism. But 
in the morning I was profoundly exercised as to my choice of 
garments, and I spent a good quarter of an hour among my 
neck-ties. When I was at last attired to my own complete dis- 
satisfaction it was time to start, and too late to change any- 
thing. 

Mrs. Grantley was just as amiable and just as watchful as 
she had been on the previous evening. She had impressed me 
from the first as a person of unusual resolution and decision; 
but I was hardly prepared for the exhibition of those qualities 
which she almost immediately afforded me. 

“ You and Miss Delamere,'’^ she said, addre*ssing Clara after 
luncheon, “ are going out shopping together? So I under- 
stood. Mr. Denham, I am sure, will be good enough to take 
care of me for a little time. I am going fOr a walk in the 
park, Mr. Denham. 

I signified my assent with what I am afraid must have been 
a suspicious promptitude; but I saw Clara looking piteously ai 
me through the glass with ‘‘ clasped, petitioning hands. The 
glance and the attitude seemed to prophesy the ordeal to which 
I was about to be subjected, and for a moment I felt horribly 
nervous and depressed — very much, I fancy, as a physical 
coward would feel on being told off for a forlorn hope. In a 
minute or two I had rallied so far as to assure myself that Mrs. 
Grantley could hardly be in a greater hurry than I was to 
arrive at an understanding. 

The girls went away together, and did not return. Mrs. 
Grantley disappeared for a minute only, and came back look- 
ing very young and charming, with her white hair concealed 
beneath her bonnet. We set out together in the eaiidy after- 


104 


THE WEAKER VtlSSEL. 


noon sunshine, and talked of trifles until we Teached the park. 
There she chose seats in a secluded- place, and opened her 
maternal batteries at once with a self-possession which I en- 
vied, but could not imitate. 

“ I want to speak to you, Mr. Denham, she said, “very 
seriously.^' 

I murmured something about being completely at her serv- 
ice, and awaited the instant massacre of my hopes. 

“It seems,” she began, “to be a recognized thing in the 
minds of Miss Delamere and my daughter that some under- 
standing exists between you and Clara. Now, as Clara’s 
mother, it is my duty to tell you that no understanding can 
possibly exist between you two young people as yet.” 

If she had been less brusque and straightforward it would 
certainly have been the worse for my self-possession. But her 
very outspokenness helped me to be at ease. I assured her 
that I did not as yet expect to secure any promise, and that I 
had not attempted to secure it. 

“ That is all very well, Mr. Denham,” the lady answered. 
“ I ought to have known better than to leave Clara so long 
alone under the guardianship of a girl so little older than her- 
self. I am not going to blame anybody for the consequences 
of my own indiscretion; but I must tell you, Mr. Denham, 
that I do not think you have behaved at all well in this 
matter.” 

I could not s^e this, and I said as much, with great respect 
and diffidence. 

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Denham,” said Mrs. Grantley; 
“ you have not behaved well. You have been paying constant 
and marked attention to a young and inexperienced girl, with- 
out the knowledge and consent of her one natural guardian. 
Now I know all about the affections, and the heart, and that 
sort of thing, and I know that it is quite possible for a boy and 
a girl to think that the world is coming to an end and the sun 
going to be extinguished because a girl has a sensible mother ; 
but my duty is to see Clara’s happiness, her solid, lasting hap- 
piness, and not to encourage a mere whim.” 

If I have not made it clear by this time that 1 was at this 
period of my life a hypersensitive and abnormally shy young 
man, I have very insufficiently indicated my own most striking 
characteristics. But I woke up here. I can not recall the 
words I used, and I dare say that a great deal of what I said 
would sound exaggerated and romantic if it were written 
down. I hope so. It is no part of the business of a lad in 
love with an angel to have the reason and measurement in 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


105 


terms of middle age. I told her, I remember, among other 
things, to consider what a beautiful and charming girl Clara 
was. In the frank simplicity and boyishness of this declara- 
tion I had. Heaven knows, no faintest idea of diplomacy, and 
yet I could hardly have done better if I had been the cleverest 
diplomat alive. I warmed to that entrancing theme and 
poured my heart out, and I know now that mamma was by 
no means displeased at my eulogy. Then I went on, as I re- 
call, to say that I was not anybody in particular up till that 
time, but that I meant, if only time were allowed me, to be 
somebody very particular indeed. I would work and fight the 
world, and wait. I asked nothing but that she should not 
come between us, that she should give me opportunity to 
strive to become worthy of a life partnership with all those 
excellences I had so warmly pictured. 

She listened with great patience and kindness, smiling now 
and then, and when I had done she said: 

You talk of your ambitions. What are they? Tell me 
about yourself. Tell me who you are and what you are, and 
what you hope to be. 

1 have known men to whom a conversational overture of 
this kind and the chance it afforded would seem to open up a 
glimpse of paradise. But I entered on it mournfully, and 
with deep misgivings. My father, I told her, had farmed his 
own land, and very little of it, in Warwickshire. In his day, 
my grandfather had farmed it before him, and his grandfather 
before him. On my mother’s side there was pretty much the 
same tale to tell, a tale of dull respectability, extending over 
six or seven generations, and having its origin in fog. My 
parents having been gathered to their fathers years ago, my 
elder brother farmed the family acres, and I had a fortune of 
three hundred pounds a year. I had read for the bar, and 
expected to be called almost immediately. 1 ha'd written for 
the magazines, and had added not less than a hundred pounds 
a year to my annual income for the past two years. I was 
preparing a book about social problems, and when I had 
finished my work of inquiry among the poor in London I 
meant to go over to Paris, and there to complete the work by 
a study on the same lines. In the meantime I should earn 
more than enough to live upon, since I was promised employ- 
ment in Paris by the editor of an important London daily 
journal. 

‘‘ Well, now, Mr. Denham,” she said, when she had heard 
me out, ‘ ‘ you see that your projects are very much in the air 
at present. You have been very candid sc far; let me ask you 


106 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


a single question. What do you know about Clara^s position 
and prospects?’"’ 

I knew nothing w^hatever, and I said so. She looked at me 
with those bright eyes of hers, and I looked back at her in 
appeal and anxiety. I was not in the least thinking about 
Clara’s position and prospects, and I suppose that she either 
saw as much, or thought she did. She smiled and nodded as 
she said: 

“ I am .very glad of that. But my daughter, Mr. Denham, 
though she will never be a great heiress, will be in such a posi- 
tion that she will have a right to look far higher than any 
place you can offer her as your wife for years to come, how- 
ever successful you may be. It would be cruel and useless to 
pretend to you now that you are not honestly in love with her, 
but you are very young, and can not yet be certain of yourself. 
Clara is still younger, and still less likely to be certain of her 
own wishes. You must go out and see the world of young 
women, which includes a great many charming young people, 
and Clara must see the world of young men, which includes 
many eligible partners. 1 shall not dream of permitting an 
engagement between you. ” And seeing that I clouded very 
much at this, and was indeed for the moment altogether heart- 
broken and desolate, she bent forward a little, and laying a 
pretty gloved hand upon my arm, she said, kindly: “ You 
must not take this too much to heart. 1 am too worldly wise 
a mother, Mr. Denham, to allow myself to seem cruel to my 
daughter. It will all, no doubt, depend very much upon 
yourself. I tell you, quite candidly, that I like you. You 
have modesty, candor, ambition, and good sense. I think you 
may make a good man, my dear. If you do well in the world, 
and are of the same mind in three or four years’ time, and if 
Clara is of the same mind in three or four years’ time, you 
and I may have another talk, which may come to an end with 
another answer.” 

The threatened delay looked heart-breaking, but I answered 
that if the n^atter depended upon myself I knew very well 
what would happen; and she smiled again, rising to go. 

“We have had our talk,” she said, as we walked side by 
side, ‘‘ and we understand each other.” 

I asked if I might be allowed to see Clara, and she answered, 
“ Certainly.” 

But,” she added, '' it will be best that you should not see 
too much of each other.” She added, seeing that I was newly 
downcast, “ Now, come, Mr. Denham, let us be sensible 
people. Suppose you see Clara now, and tell her what I have 


WEAKER VESSEL. 


107 


said, and anything in your own behalf you please.-’^ Her 
voice was laughiug here, as if she could guess pretty fairly 
what that anything else would be. ‘‘And suppose you say 
good-bye for three months. You will admit that if your 
affection can not endure a three months’ absence, it is a great 
deal less robust than you fancy it. Suppose you agree to meet 
not of teller than once in three months, after that, until you 
have begun to do something which will really confirm my good 
opinion of you. Suppose that, if that time should come, we 
enter on a new arrangement. Come now, that ought to 
stimulate you to effort, and if you two young pdbple are really 
and seriously attached to each other, the best thing for both 
of you will be that you shall get to work in earnest.” 

1 admit that, it all sounds reasonable and kindly now, but it 
was different then, and, not to put it too strongly, was like the 
reading of a warrant of despair. We walked back together, 
Mrs. Grantley and I, and Clara and Miss Delamere arriving 
shortly after us, we sat down to tea. 1 tried to behave ration- 
ally and bravely, but in spite of my best efforts my manner 
depressed Clara. After tea we were left alone together. I 
told her everything, and we sat hand in hand and cried a little, 
like the foolish, tender-hearted children that we were, and 
dried one another’s eyes, and vowed never and never and never 
to forget or change. 1 have sometimes been happy since that 
heart-broken evening, 1 may have been actually, happier once 
or twice, but not oftener. 1 find Mrs. Denham of the same 
opinion when I consult her memories, and whether, in the 
course of time, this will enable us to be worldly wise with our 
own children I can not guess. I only know that, if that 
blessed evening were to be counted sorrowful, I would ask 
nothing better than to be sorrowful all my days. We were 
parting for three months. Dim were the depths of that great 
gulf of time; far and far away, through the mist of tears, we 
saw firm land again beyond it, the land of promise, shining in a 
misty brightness. But, in the meantime, we sat side by side, 
hand clasping hand, and our arms about each other, and I 
told her how dearly I loved her; and she, in the sweet pain of 
that parting, banished all shyness, and told me how dearly she 
loved me; and Heaven knows that, if any foolish pair of people 
on whom the sun shone that day were happy while thinking 
themselves heart-broken, we were they. 


108 


THE WEAKER YESSEL. 


CHAPTPIR XVll. 

I TOOK a precipitate determination to start at once for 
Paris, and there to set on foot my researches for the second 
part of that volume which was to shake rthe pillars of social 
order in the two great centers of civilization. Since further 
meetings with Clara were for the time being forbidden me, I 
felt as if I could not bear to be near her. The barrier of dis- 
tance seemed essential to even a bearable misery. Of course I 
was no sooner denied the house than I began to desire to go 
there with greater frequency than ever. So long as I had been 
free to call I had contented myself with visits of a ridiculous 
frequency, and now my thoughts tended in that direction every 
waking moment, and my feet led me thither every evening of 
the week. 

Perhaps if Pole had been in town I might have confided my 
sorrows and hopes to the ear of friendship. As it was I had 
no confidant, and managed somehow to consume my own 
smoke in a fairly successful manner. But I used to wander 
up and down outside the house in the darkness, watching the 
shadows on the windows and the light in the chamber which I 
knew to be hers, making vows and protestations and verses, 
and generally enjoying myself prof oundly with a rooted convic- 
tion that I was the un happiest dog alive. 

It was evident that all this had to come to an end, and so I 
determined straightway upon the commencement of my 
Parisian campaign. I went to see my friend the editor, and 
found my arrival timed most fortunately. I learned that there 
was a thoroughly experienced person in charge of the Paris 
office. Within his own limits this gentleman was perfectly 
trustworthy, and in all matters of routine and technique I was 
instructed to rely upon him implicitly. His colleague, a 
young fellow of unusual brilliance, had disappeared under 
circumstances not altogether creditable to himself, and since 
I was prepared to start at once I was to be allowed to fill his 
place on trial. If my work proved to be satisfactory I was 
promised a permanent engagement. The salary offered was 
not large, as salaries go nowadays, but it trebled my expecta- 
tions at the time, and I closed, eagerly with the offer. The 
post offered me double advantages. The salary was large 
enough to permit me, by extreme modesty of living, to save 
one half of it, and my position as a recognized journahst would 
immensely facilitate the inquiries I desired to make. I wrote 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


109 


off at once to Mrs. Grantley, informing her of this unexpected 
stroke of good fortune, and 1 wrote my good-bye for the time 
being to Pole. Then I packed up my belongings, gave in- 
structions for the reletting of my> chambers, and started with 
all manner of tender regrets and high ambitions for the French 
capital. 

The cheapest route to Boulogne was by the London, boat, 
and in pursuit of economic resolutions formed beforehand I 
embarked upon it. There was nobody to see me off, and I 
felt desolate and exiled before the boat had left the quay. 
The bell was ringing, friends of intending travelers were say- 
ing their last good-byes and hurrying ashore, handkerchiefs 
;were waving, and final messages were being shouted from deck 
to platform, and back again, as though we were bound for a 
voyage to the antipodes, v/hen suddenly I recognized a familiar 
face, and Mr. Goldsmith, wfth a black-glazed portmanteau in 
his hand, came dashing through the crowd, stumbled down 
the gangway and reached the deck. He had only just set foot 
upon the boat when the gangway was slipped up from behind 
him. He set down his portmanteau, mopped his countenance 
with a gorgeous silk handkerchief, and gazed about him with 
a renewal of that beaming complacency which had marked 
him at the beginning of our acquaintance. He was magnifi- 
cently attired in, 1 think, the check suit of the largest pattern 
and vividest colors I had ever, until that hour, beheld. He 
wore an embroidered waistcoat, with a great gold cable across 
it, which for size and weight would have served admirably to 
attach a horse to his manger; and he wore rings outside his 
gloves, and a pin with a horseshoe head, a size or two smaller 
than the original, and set full of brilliants, which, if they had 
been real, might have excited the cupidity of everybody on 
board. I believe that if fashion had only afforded him the 
least warranty fonit he would have gone about with a jeweled 
ring in his nose, like some imaginable Croesus of a porker. 

He did not observe me for some tinie, and I had time to 
observe one proceeding of his which interested me more than 
a little. He had three or four rings outside his gloves already, 
and when once the boat had started he retired to a position 
where he fancied himself safe from intruding glances, and 
there drew forth from his purse a little tissue-paper packet 
containing half a dozen others. These he put on with an ad- 
mirable slyness, and having demurely admired them, turned 
round and swaggered across the deck,, coaxing his black little 
mustache, and adjusting that monumental horseshoe pin for 
their display. 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


ilo 

At first I was not sorry to be unobserved by him, for I felt 
somehow as if his splendcfrs were likely to be reflected upon 
anybody whose acquaintance he might claim, and fancied I 
might find that glory a tl:i^ight too obtrusive to be easily en- 
dured. In awhile, however, I began to feel ashamed of this 
sentiment, and purposely put myself in a position in which he 
might see me if he chose to do so. He very soon remarked 
me, and as I chanced to be looking in his direction at that 
moment, 1 got something of a start. ■ He positively jumped 
when he saw me, and his face, which had worn its very 
brightest and most self-approving smile until that moment, 
suddenly clouded over. A moment later he came up to me 
with a forced manner and accosted me. 

Who^d have thought of seeing you here?^" he asked, in 
anything but a gracious tone. I remarked that it was no un- 
usual thing in traveling to meet a man whom one had met 
before. He grunted a sort of unamiable assent to this, and 
asked where I was going. To Paris, 1 told him. He looked 
at me, as 1 fancied, with some suspicion, and moved awav 
rather abruptly. 

It happens, often enough, in the course of everybody’s ex- 
perience, that after-events set so clear a light upon trifles that 
we suppose ourselves to have observed them keenly at the time 
of their occurrence. It is quit^ probable that, if I had had no 
particular cause for recalling Goldsmith^s suspicious glance I 
should never have given it a second thought. And now, after 
the lapse of more than twenty years, I can see the fat little 
man peering shrewdly at me as clearly as if he were before me 
at this instant. ‘ What the deuce are you going to Paris 
.for. ^ said the beady eye, as plainly as if the question iad been 
asked in words. Some foolish notion of Goldsmith’s mvr- 
midons having watched me, and of his suspecting me of 
wa ching him m return, assailed my min^i, demanding only 
to be laughed at pd dismissed. We sat next to each other at 
table at dinner-time, and since there was no other English- 
speaking person within conversational distance of him he 

at the meal, and took a 
good deal of it, so that before we left the table he was a little 
flushed and inclined to be amiably merry. He was going, he 
said, speaking more through his nose than usual, to Iiave a bit 
of fun in Pans. He was going to do a bit of business, too, he 
told me, winking oim beady eye after the other with an ineffa^ 
b e knowingness. He had a client in Paris, so he said, and he 
arrogance into this statement as if the fact 
entitled him to uncommon consideration. 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


Ill 


She^s a lady, my boy/’ he said, slapping me boisterously 
on the shoulder. “ Wod of these days she’ll occupy wod of 
the highest social positions. She’ll bake a doise id the world,* 
too.^ You see if she don’t. Bark by words,” he continued, 
poking me in the ribs with friendly familiarity, that wobad 
will bake a doise id the world. ” 

I said I hoped his expectations would be gratified. 

“Do you?” he demanded. “Now do you really. Bister 
Dedhab? IJpod by word that’s very kide of you. I’b very 
much obliged to you, I ab, upon my living word of honor.” 

I attributed, the fervor of his gratitude for this not too 
effusive expression of good-will chiefly to the champagne he 
had taken, but the exciting effect of the wine did not remain 
long upon him, and five minutes later, after having strutted 
up and down the deck, smoking a cigar, he came back to me 
with a complete sobriety of demeanor. 

“ I’ve been down to Kensal Green,” he said, “ within the 
last day or two, and I’ve seen the monument Pole has put up 
to his wife. To tell you the truth I didn’t expect he’d do as 
little as that for her. She was an awful trouble to him, I’ve 
no doubt> and I dare say he’s pretty glad to have seen the last 
of her.” 

I did not care to enter into a discussion upon Pole’s feelings 
with Mr. Goldsmith, and therefore kept silence. 

“ I dare say,” he went on, “ he’s told you a lot about her, 
and there’s no mistake about her having been a Tartar. I 
wasn’t tied to her in any way, but, bless your heart alive, she 
used to make my life a burden to me. ” 

Still I said nothing, but Mr- Goldsmith, having once made 
conversational overtures, was not to be silenced by silence. 

“ I saw by this morning’s papers,” he continued, “ that old 
Lord Worborough’s very ill again. I suppose the old boy is 
on his last legs, or pretty nearly. Bister Pole’ll tubble id to a 
good thing when his lordship goes off the hooks. He’ll be 
getting married again, I shouldn’t wonder, after a time. I 
think he’s had his eye on a suitable party for some tibe past, 
down Cromwell Terrace way.” 

“ Mr. Goldsmith,” I rejoined, “ I am very much delighted 
by your society, and very proud of it. But I would rather lose 
it altogether than continue the discussion of this theme.” 

“ Oh, that’s all rigM,” responded Mr. Goldsmith. “ I 
dever object to a man being a bit close about his friend’s 
affairs or his own. I’m pretty close myself, when I want to 
be. I’m ready to supply anybody with the small change of 
codversation to any amount, but if I’m asked for the fiver of 


112 


THE WEAKEE VESSEL. 


fact I wadt five quid id exchage for it, money down. Only, 
you know, 1 happen to have had idstructions to keep an eye 
on Mr. Pole^s proceedings. His wife was very jealous, poor 
thing, and I think between ourselves. Bister Dedhab, she had 
a little bit of reasod for it.^'’ 

“ I think, Mr. Goldsmith,^^ 1 answered, rather coldly, 
“ that I know Mr. Pole somewhat better than yourself. I 
can tell you at least that there never was the slightest reason 
for it.^' 

I was half sorry a moment later to have taken the trouble 
to make this disclaimer in my friend ^s behalf. . It was certain.- 
ly little worth while to defend Pole to a man like Goldsmith. 
It might have been worth while, perhaps, while that sorrowful 
wife of Pole^’s was still alive, and Pole and Goldsmith were 
compelled to hold some sort of communion with each other. 
Now, I knew very well that Pole cared as little to have his 
honor vindicated here as he would have cared tb have his 
height and weight proclaimed in the interior of China. 

Oh!’^ said Goldsmith, “ you’re a bit of an innocent, my 
boy. Excuse me for sayig so, but that’s the fact. 1 don’t 
suppose that Bister Pole meant mischief — ” 

“ Now, Mr. Goldsmith,” I broke in, very decidedly, “ I 
have already asked you not to talk to me about this matter. 
There is more water here than was near us on a ceNain 
memorable occasion when you introduced this topic about this 
time last year.” 

Oh,” said Goldsmith, “ if you’re going to talk like that 
I’ve got nothing to add to the observatiods I’ve made already. 
I’ll tell you what — I’ll toss you for a braddy and soda. I’ll 
toss you for a soverid. Come now! I always lose when I 
challage a man, and so there’s a bit of a chadce for you.” 

How could a student of human nature be continuously 
wroth with Mr. Goldsmith? I never paused to analyze his 
charm, but sooner or later it asserted itself in almost all our 
interviews. The fact that I detested brandy and soda, and the 
other fact that I could not afford to toss for sovereigns with 
Mr. Goldsmith, debarred me perhaps from the full enjoyment 
of his society. But even as things were, I was more than con- 
tented with him. One paid a certain toll, to be sure, and I was 
ashamed of being ashamed to be seen with him. There is no 
perfect pleasure in this world. * 

Pole would have silenced the little man in a minute, but 
there was no terror in my threats, and but little force for him 
in my refusal to talk about the topic on which his heart was 
obviously set. The only thing I could do was to refrain from 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


113 


answering him. Now and again I checked him, but 1 only 
drove him for a moment to a divergence from the route, and 
if he went out on one side he came in on the other like a con- 
versational harlequin. He hastened me to my cabin by an 
hour or so, and in the bustle of landing in the morning I saw 
but little of him. He went on to Paris by first-class, and I, 
for economy's sake, traveling second, we met only at the Gare 
du Nord while our baggage was under examination. He had 
some little difficulty with one 'of the examiners, and called 
upon me to interpret for him. 

IVe been over here time and again, he remarked, but 
1 never took the trouble to pick up the parly-voo lidgo. 
Stupid lot these Frenchmen are. Think of a crowd of grown- 
up chaps like these not knowing how to speak Iglish? I got 
on very well among -’em. Whedever I want to buy anything 
I put down less than the thing would cost in Iglad, and potter 
out the coppers till they’ve got enough. Sometimes they get 
tired of asking for more. I come through it pretty well. 
They can see I’m a foreigner, and they take pity on me be- 
cause I’m yug and iddocent. ” 

He accompanied and followed this statement with a meteoric 
shower of winks, and his bag having by this time received, its 
cabalistic chalk-mark, he bade me good-bye, and disappeared. 
I drove to a little hotel I knew in the Rue Richelieu, and 
having bargained there for 'pension at eight francs per diem, 
took up my quarters in a lofty garret. I saw my luggage 
safely bestowed, dined, and walked toward the Boulevard. 

How intimately I recall the night, and my own sensations as 
I wandered up and down. How alone I felt, how tender, how 
valiant, how resolved! What flashes of enthusiasm assailed 
my spirit every here and there! I touched, in passing, or 
seemed to touch, the spirits of great men who had trodden 
these pavements long ago, and of others who were alive and 
familiar with them at that hour. I sent out my whole heart 
to the girl I left behind me, with so much warmth and sin- 
cerity that I thought my feeling needs must reach her and its 
voice find an echo in her mind. 

And so to bed, as Pepys says, to feel the whole great city 
palpitating round me, a mystery to be known, a problem to 
be solved, a fortress to be stormed. One of my last unmixed 
joys in London had been to accompany Clara to the English 
opera at Covent Garden. Sims Reeves had sung that night in 
Macfarren’s Robin Hood,""' and almost the last thing in my 
mind on that first night in Paris was the memory of the re- 
joicing lines and the triumphant voice: 


114 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


" I know that love will lead me right, 

With such a prize in view, 

And happy omens bless my sight, 

That must, that shall, be true.” 

Ah me! I had a vague and general notion through it all that 
my lot was not a happy one, and it seemed that I had to face 
the future with a bold heart to dare to look at it at all. I am 
(1 own it with an humble heart, knowing my own poor deserts 
better than my most censorious neighbors) blessed beyond the 
average of men, yet, if I could, I would go back to those 
happy, happy, troubled times, and never ask to leave them. ^ 


CHAPTER XVIIL 

I HAD been about two months in Paris, burrowing into all 
manner of odd corners, and picking up all manner of strange 
acquaintances, when I received a letter from Clara. It came 
in a fat and bulky envelope, and consisted of no fewer than 
ten sheets of foreign letter paper, which were covered on both 
sides. In some wonderment at the voluminous nature of this 
epistle, I locked myself in and sat down to read it. 

My dear Johh,^^ it ran — Mr. Delamere was making a 
great preachment here the other night to mamma and Mary 
and myself about the rights of insurrection,- and the only part 
I remember of it was that he laid it down as an indisputable 
proposition that anybody who rebelled without succeeding was 
wicked, and that anybody who rebelled successfully was 
worthy of all admiration. I took this lesson upstairs with me, 
and laid it to heart. I counted the chances, and then I re- 
belled. The rebellion has succeeded completely, and now, if 
you please, I claim to be worthy of your admiration. 

I had long been wishing to write to you, and mamma was 
very strongly against it. If ever I come to be a charming old 
lady and have a headstrong girl to manage, I dare say I shall 
come round to mamma’s present opinions. But being myself 
the headstrong girl at present, and having to manage the 
charming old lady, I retain my own. She really is the most 
charming old lady in the world, and 1 tell you so with perfect 
frankness because she has. made it a condition of her surrender 
that she shall read whatever I write before it is posted. Mam- 
ma has been spoiled by flattery all her life, but is still open to 
its influences. 

I suppose that you will begin to get melancholy about it 
if I tell you that I am in the highest possible spirits; but as a 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


115 


matter of fact 1 am. have been playing and witnessing 
the loveliest high comedy here ever since your departure. Mr. 
Jones, to use your friend^s delightful expression, has been 
Sebastian Dolmering about the house in the most artistically 
inspired manner ever since you saw the last of it. We know 
now that he made a formal proposition to Mr. Delamere for 
the hand of his daughter. How stately that sounds, to be 
sure! j\fr. Delamere appears to have given the word of com- 
mand for the siege of the citadel, and Mr. Jones has been sit- 
ting down before it ever since. Mary used to have a much 
loftier opinion of Mr. Delamere^s godson than I have ever 
found myself able to rise to. My wings always refused to 
carry me on that flight, though I really did at one time flap 
them quite industriously. But since- the high-road of good 
opinion seemed likely to land Mary in the quagmire of matri- 
mony, she does npt travel on it any longer. I am told that it 
is a dreadfully ilnlady-like word to use, but I will write it in 
letters as small as my quill can make, and you may take it for 
a kind of shocked whisper. I am very much of opinion, that 
Mr. Jones is a liumbug. I have been burning for months to 
say this to somebody, and now that I have it off my mind my 
spirits are higher than ever. 

‘‘ At first I was dreadfully anxious when I heard of this ter- 
rible proposal, and for a whole day or two I was left to wonder 
what would happen. By and by I began to observe that the 
suitor was less exalted and confident than he had seemed at 
first, and I was sensible enough to put a sound construction 
upon this phenomenon. How does a phenomenon look when 
you put a sound construction on it? It sounds as if it would 
be funny, like one of Boyles’s grotesque fairy pictures. The 
elder Delamere seemed to take the thing almost as much to 
heart as the younger one, and the pair were deliciously gloomy 
and stately for a time. You would have thought that papa, 
was suffering from the same pangs of blighted affection as 
afflicted Sebastian, and they both bore their sorrow with such 
a braggadocio meekness, and so wore their hearts upon their 
sleeves, that no daw with a touch of human nature in her could 
have kept herself from pecking at them. 1 am afraid that I 
have been a great trouble to Mr. Delamere and his candidate. 
I am almost afraid that at times 1 have really meant to be, 
but they have been altogether too inviting to be resisted. 

Of course Mr. Delamere’s suffering silence did not endure 
long. He talks so beautifully that he really caiiT help talk- 
ing, and I think it a bit of a pity that he is so excellent a con- 
versationalist. If he had not been able to talk so nicely about 


116 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 

everything he might have seen his way to doing something. 
When once the ice was broken the fountain ran for days, and 
everybody in the house was drenched with the noblest maxims. 
Mamma in particular was so wet through with them that I 
could not touch her without squeezing two or three to the sur- 
face. His favorite theme was the ‘ Growth of Self-will in the 
Young and the Falling Off of Eeverence for thq Parental 
Ideal. ^ 1 am writing about it now as if it had been pure fun 
for everybody all along, but I assure you that it was nothing 
of the kind at the time. It is only in the contemplation of it, 
now that the trouble is all over, that one can see the comic side 
of it. 1 was so sorry for Mary, and so angry at that pitiless 
shower of words, that I sometimes found it hard to be merely 
civil to Mr. Delamere. The worst of it is— -or perhaps it is 
the best of it — Mary believes in her father to such an extent 
that it would be quite cruel to try to lessen her opinion of 
him. Your friend Mr. Pole is very funny and amusing some- 
times. We met him last night at the Eevels% and he was de- 
scribing somebody whom I do not know. He said that this 
gentleman, to his wife^s mind, was such a very large potato 
that it would break her heart to see him pared. But for this 
lady’s affection it appears that some friend of Mr. Pole’s was 
quite prepared to pare the potato, and, judging from what he 
said, to reduce its dimensions very considerably. It brought 
Mr. Delamere and Mary irresistibly to my mind. I do serious- 
ly believe that if it were possible to peel all the pretense off 
that gentleman he would make a rival to Tom Thumb. 

But now I must tell you what has really happened. I am 
so glad of my liberty that I have been compelled to race round 
in these preliminary circles before sitting down to steady nar- 
rative, like a dog just unchained, or a pigeon starting for 
home, which, when I come to think of it, is a prettier and 
more lady-like simile. Mr. Jones had actually and formally 
proposed, and Mary had definitely and formally declined to 
accept him. Mr. Delamere, after the first frozen days of 
silence, had poured on us that deluge of eloquence of which I 
have already told. you. But I have not told you that he had a 
second or alternative theme which dealt with the Crime of 
Concealment in Social Affairs. You remember something of 
this, but it was repeated as if its variety were as infinite as 
Cleopatra’s, and it could neither be staled by age nor withered 
by custom. The text of it was, of course, afforded by your 
friend, Mr. Pole, and I heard him preached against so often 
that 1 ended by taking a liking to him. 

‘‘ And now comes the fun of the whole position. Mr. Pole 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


117 


stayed in the country with Lord Worborough for quite six 
weeks after your departure. Then he and his lordship, who 
is quite recovered, came up to town together, and Mr. Pole 
made a call at Cromwell Terrace. All this time Mary had 
been pumped on by the paternal pump until she could scarcely 
have had a dry moral threS,d to call her own, and she was get- 
ting quite depressed and thin under this hydropathic treat- 
ment. 

‘‘ I think, Mr. Pole has very decidedly improved in appear- 
ance. He does not look so stern and stony as he used to do. 
He is rather grave and quiet, but 1 am sure that he has a 
great deal more humor than he shows, for 1 have seen his eye 
twinkle very often when Mr. Delamere has been talking; and 
1 have been conscious that if anybody had caught me at the 
same moment they might have seen the same signs. He stayed 
only an hqur at his first call, and on the following day he came 
again, bridging his lordship with him. You did not at all 
exaggerate when you told me what a dear old gentleman he is. 
I never met a lord before, to speak to, though I have looked 
at a whole menagerie of them through the gilded railings at 
Westminster, and 1 was a little afraid of him at first. He is 
old-fashioned and stately, but there is such a beautiful courtesy 
in everything he says and does that I think him perfectly lov- 
able. He is just what an old nobleman ought to be, and all 
our hearts went down before him like so many ninepins. 

Mr. Jones, of course, is always about the house, and he and 
Mr. Delamere did most of the talking. His lordship seemed 
extremely pleased and interested by them, and you know that 
when you do not get too much of them they can both be very 
clever and amusing. 

“We were treated that night to a new lecture, and it was 
such an unmixed blessing to get a change from the old ones 
that we all welcomed it with enthusiasm. At times it was 
really beautiful and affecting, and it was all about the Moral 
Advantages of the Territorial Sentiment. On the very next 
day his lordship called alone, and was closeted with Mr. Dela- 
mere. Mamma and 1 were out at the time, and 1 only heard 
of this afterward, but when I got home I met Mary, and I 
was quite certain at once that something had happened. I 
donT think I ever saw anybody looking so beautiful as she 
did. You know what very fine and speaking eyes she has. 
They were all sparkling and gentle at the same time, and when 
I had coaxed her a little she told me that Lord Worborough 
had spoken to Mr. Delamere about a marriage between her 
and Mr. Pole. It was like the dear, stately old gentleman to 


118 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


come himself and to show that he approved of the match, for, 
of course, the future Lord Worborough will be very much 
above Miss Delamere in wealth and social station, though, 
after all, a lady can only be a lady, and Mary would have been 
an empress by now if emperors were sensible people. 

“ There are «ome things about which it doesnT seem the 
least use in the world to try to say anything. If I were trying 
to tell a stranger what happened next I should fall into pure 
despair. I know that I shouldnT succeed in^ conveying a 
shadow of the truth. But you are not a stranger, and I think 
that you have a little imagination. Pray let it loose, and try 
to picture to yourself Mr. Delamere that evening struggling in 
Mr. Joneses presence with the rudiments of a new discourse on 
‘ The Blending of the Artistic and Territorial Ideals. Poor 
Mr. Jones was very mournful under this, and though 1 could 
not help feeling that he has made us all suffer very much by 
his perseverance, 1 was sorry for him when his ally de- 
serted him. He still comes to the house, and Mr. Delamere 
and he are a great deal together; but Mr. Pole calls everyday, 
and the poor thing must certainly be excessively uncomfort- 
able. He does not seem to have the strength of mind to go 
away. I wish he would, for as it is I can not help being a lit- 
tle unhappy about him at times. He’dashes those high spirits 
I told you of, although I must confess that his airs of martyr- 
dom are sometimes a little trying. What makes me pity him 
most is the altogether • heartless way in which Mr. Delamere 
has turned upon him. Only last night we had a new discourse 
on ‘ The Philosophical Acceptance of the Inevitable,’ which 
was so cruel and at the same time so funny that I really won- 
der how I lived through it and kept my countenance. I had 
to look hard at the table all the while, and I said to myself 
again and again that it would be most shameful to wound 
Mary by laughing. I succeeded in sitting through it, but I 
was quite hysterical in my own room afterward. 

“ So, now you see that, with the exception of poor Mr. 
Jones, everybody is happy. Mr. Delamere makes a pretense 
of coolness about the match, which sometimes throws a little 
shadow over Mary’s spirits; but I can see clearly that he only 
does this to let himself down easily. There is no talk about 
an immediate marriage, and I suppose everybody feels that 
such a suggestion would seem a little indelicate, in view of 
what has happened. 

“ And now, 'Since I have rebelled in your behalf and my 
own, you must answer this, and tell me all about yourself and 
your doings. I have never seen Paris, but I have read a pro* 


THE WEAKEK VESSEL. 


119 


digious deal about it within the last two months. I can not 
imagine what it is that has made me take so sudden an interest 
in the French capital. Perhaps you can. I have told mamma 
that it is all nonsense to talk or think of my changing, and be- 
yond that I am not going to say anything, except that I am 
“Yours, Clara. 

This epistle delighted me on many grounds, selfish and un- 
selfish. A week later I got a letter from Pole, who I suppose 
had been too busy in his new-found hopes of happiness to write 
before. I wrote back, congratulating him with all my heart, 
and now that a means of communication between Clara and 
myself had been opened up, and the one creature in the world 
I loved best after her was going to be happy, everything 
seemed bright again. 

Smiling seas and a steady breeze abeam, and gay skies and 
banners flying in the wind, and the gladdest music aboard, 
and “ Land ho!^^ and the sweetest bay of the land of promise 
reaching forth its green arms in welcome. Then a crash, and 
the sunken rock that no man dreamed of has rent us from 
stem to stern. 


CHAPTEE XIX. 

My commanding officer and colleague was Mr. 4l6xander 
Macllray. Our office was up four pairs of stairs in the Eue de 
la Paix. It has very pronouncedly blossomed out since then, 
and nowadays its gilded sign-board is visible from half-way 
down the Boulevard des Capucines; but at that time we were 
humble, and even a little bohemian in our ways and aspect. 
Journalism has grown of late years into a recognized profes- 
sion. One feels, in setting that statement upon paper, guilty 
of an actual banality; and yet, as I remember the business 
a quarter of a century back, it was very little of a recognized 
profession at all, and a vast number of its followers were 
harum-scarum, clever, sociable, lovable, and good-for-nothing 
people, who dressed as it pleased them, drank habitually more 
than was good for them, kept the insanest hours, and gener- 
ally conducted themselves as though they knew they were out- 
side the claims and privileges of ordinary society. I am of a 
staid and sober turn of mind, and never cared greatly for the 
wilder sort of revelry; but I look back with an affectionate re- 
gret to some of the old times and scenes and many of the lost 
faces. I dare say I am getting to be an old fogy; but 1 look 
round in vain among the begloved, tall-hatted, frock-coated 


120 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


contingent of to-day for the merriment, the jollity, the good- 
fellowship, the open-handedness which went along with the 
ramshackle life, the billycock hat, and the smoke - scented 
jacket. . 

There never was a personage in this world less bohemian 
than Mr. Alexander Macllray. He was a particularly respect- 
aible Scot, who dressed uniformly in black, and whose gloves 
and linen were always perfectly clean and orderly. He seemed 
never to go anywhere unless called thither by affairs, and lie 
lived without friends or acquaintances outside his business. 
He was by no means an ungenial little man, but he was 
always occupied, out of the hours of actual work, in getting 
his tools together, as he phrased it. 

The besiness of a journalist, Mr. Denham, is to know 
everything that is to be known. Univairsal knowledge is per- 
haps empossible, is, in fact, empossible, for the endividual, but 
the mere truth that a theng is empossible has no right to debar 
a man from attempting it. Get your tools in order, Mr. Den- 
ham. Know everything that ye can lay your mental hand 
upon. 

He broke out on me with this before 1 had known him for a 
week, and repeated it constantly with unction, and sometimes 
with a startling air of originality, as if the thought had just 
occurred to him and he was in haste to express it before it van- 
ished. He had an odd way of expi 



of companionship. Sometimes 


silent for an hour or more, each engaged in his own task, he 
would push his work aside, and, gazing at me in a friendly 
fashion through his gold-rimmed glasses, would smooth his 
red hair with both hands and say: “Ay, ay, Mr. Denham! 
Ay, ay, lad! Ay, ay!^^ in a tone of cheerful certainty and 
conviction. Then he would turn- to again at his task of get- 
ting his tools together. I suppose he got too many tools to- 
gether, and so filled his mental work- shop that he had no 
room to move about in it. He himself d,id next to nothing 
with the paraphernalia he collected. He used to remind me 
sometiuies of some imaginable frantically generous iron- 
monger, who kept a prodigious stock of every sort of imple- 
ment for every trade beneath the skies, knew the practical 
handling of no one of them, and gave away his stock all day 
among the passers-by. 1 got to have a superstitious belief in 
Mr. Macllray^s omniscience. He was a walking cyclopedia. I 
bepuzzled myself with problems for his puzzlement, and never 
caught him. People who have not met this sort of man hardly 
know how to believe in him. One would have thought that 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 131 

nothiog less than a life-time would have served a man to learn 
Paris, for instance, as Macllray knew it. 

When I first came to this cetty I med up my mind that it 
was my duty to know it. So I just set myself down in the 
meddle of it and obsairved. Then, sir, in awhile I began to 
radiate. Now, as a matter of fact and experrience, it^s not 
that easy to radiate as ye might fancy. Ye want a heap of 
preliminary knowledge. I^m thenking that if a man began 
his denner with his cheese, and worked back his way to the 
soup, he’d find his digestive organs getting out of order in a 
whilie. There’s a way*of absorbing a cetty or a subject just 
as there’s a way of absorbing your denner, and ef you take the 
wrong ye’re like to find yourself bothered by a sperretual endi- 
gestion.” 

In spite of this admirable exordium I found, when I came 
to try him, that he had formulated no scheme at all for the 
absorption of subject or city. He used to stand in that over- 
crowded warehouse of his, and survey his tools with a constant 
satisfaction, and used to lay down philosophical theories be- 
yond counting for the increase of his armory, and at first I 
used to wait for the announcement of some great task, some 
herculean feat of letters or of learning to which he had set 
himself single-handed. The revelation never came. 

He was a simple-minded little man, in spite of all his learn- 
ing, and he had a boyish enthusiasm of admiration for faculties 
which lay outside his own range. He could flow out, measure- 
less, upon paper, not in a stream which went anywhere, but 
in a sort of bog of mingled thought and fact over which no 
man could travel dryshod. But to get the gist of a thing in- 
side the journalistic nutshell was altogether impossible fpr him, 
and since I was not long in perceiving the necessity of the 
trick, and speedily acquired the knack itself, he used to ad- 
mire me in a way so candid and open that I blushed before 
him. 

‘‘ Ay, lad!” he would say, ye have but to get your tools 
together and ye’ll make a workman.” Then he would go to 
his own labors, or dive into the packed intricacies of his inward 
storehouse, and would emerge an hour later with a cheerful 
“ Ay, ay, Mr. Denham! Ay, ay, lad! Ay, ay!” as if I had 
said something to elicit his most cordial sympathies. 

He worked up four pairs of stairs in the Kue de la Paix, 
and he lived up six pairs of stairs in an eminently respectable 
boarding-house in the Boulevard Haussmann. As I got to be 
more and more intimate with him he took very kindly to me, 
but it was a week or two after the reception of Clara’s letter 


m 


1:he weaker vessel. 


that I paid my first visit to his quarters. I had begun to think 
that we should never come to an end of the stairs when he 
paused upon the sixth landing and threw open the door which 
led to a tolerably spacious and very orderly apartment. His 
bed was snugly tucked away in one corner, and surrounded by 
a screen, and a great book-case filled the opposite wall from 
floor to ceiling. There was not one volume of mere entertain- 
ment on its shelves, but there were grammars and dictionaries, 
atlases and gazetteers, dictionaries of biographies and dates, 
huge bound folios of the “ Entr^acte cob webbed all over 
with short-hand criticisms of performances, volumes of history 
by the hundred, works on chemistry, metallurgy, conchology, 
and on the lower shelves a battalion of encyclopedias. 

‘‘ Here are tools for a journalist, Mr. Denham,’^ he said, 
with a subdued ' pride, as he saw me examining his books. 
“ Get the contents of those pages well into your mind, and 
there is no department of human efiort into the consideration 
whereof ye will not be prepared to enter. 

I suggested that the tools were there, and that it might 
suffice to take them down as they were wanted, but this seemed 
positively to shock Macllray. 

‘‘Henni, lad!’^ he exclaimed, warmly. “ There^s nothing 
that a man can call his own in this wide warld but that which 
is packed away in the head and the soul of him. Carry your 
weapons about with you, and then no man can catch y^un- 
armed at any moment. 

I persisted in thinking that if a man would carry about with 
him arms enough for fifty people he might find himself em- 
barrassed in a chance conflict which came suddenly upon him, 
but if my theories had been very koh-i-noors of practice it was 
too late to present them to Macllray. I liked the simple- 
hearted, prim-spoken little book-worm very warmly, and he 
returned my liking. So we got on admirably together, and 
not infrequently I spent my evenings in his room. He gave 
me to understand, in a very friendly way, that I was to regard 
my first introduction there as a standing invitation. 

“ The place, such as it is, Mr. Denham, is open to ye. 
Wethin its compass I can say for it that yeffl find no more 
useful mass o^ knowledge than ye see collected here. Ef ever 
yeTe passing this way with an hour to spare and ye want to 
refresh your mind yeTl just walk upstairs as ef the place be- 
longed to ye, whether I’m en or out. ITl give word to the 
concierge below stairs to that effect.” 

I accepted his cordial invitation, and in a little while the 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 123 

house on the Boulevard Haussmann knew me almost as well 
as if I were an inmate. 

The day before which 1 was forbidden by maternal authority 
to visit Clara came slowly nearer and more near. The nearer 
it grew the more the hours lagged to my Impatient fancy, but 
at last I stood within four-and-twenty hours of starting. I 
had secured a two-days^ holiday, and in the afternoon — 1 re- 
member that it was a Saturday, and a day of exceptional slack- 
ness — 1 visited Mr. Macllray to talk over with him one or two 
matters which would have to be attended to in my absence, 
for which no definite arrangements had been made. We talked 
things over, and then fell into some friendly discussion, so that 
I lingered for an hour or two. 

We were still in the full flush and glory of the summer, but 
the staircases of the house were dark in places, where the 
illumination which struck through certain gloomy little sky- 
lights and port-holes could not reach. I was half-way down 
when I heard the silken rustle of a dress below me, and made 
myself small to let the wearer pass. She was in shadow, and 
a narrow stream of light, with the motes dancing thickly in it, 
played across the dimness and half obliterated all objects which 
lay beyond it. I stood in a corner and waited for a second or 
two while the wearer of the silken dress came, at a very leisure- 
ly pace, step by step along the stairs until all on a sudden, 
with such a shock as seemed to stop my heart, I saw the face 
of that dead wife of Pole’s spring into the radiance shot across 
the staircase by the sinking sun. The proud, hard, disdainful 
eyes blinked in the sudden light, and the woman, seeing an 
instant later that some one stood by to make room for her, 
gave me a scornful, undiscerning glance from head to foot and 
went slowly by. 

If I had not been supported by the wall I should have fallen 
in the horror of my amazement. I heard the silken rustle 
and the deliberate footstep pace the corridor above, and I 
heard the click of the handle of a door, and then the door itself 
slammed noisily. I do not know how, by any art of words, to 
convey to the understanding of another the sensations which 
assailed me. I think that among the chief of them was a 
swift and terrible certainty that nothing in the world was real, 
and that I was somehow sunk in the middle of an eternal 
emptiness of space. 

When the first shock was over, I found that I was shaking 
from head to foot, and that my face and hands were moist. 
My head was whirling, so that the stairs were a kind of terror 
to me. I climbed to the landing, and stood there awhile, 


124 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


striving to collect myself, and then, rather by instinct, as I 
thought afterward, than because of any definite purpose in my 
mind, I went back to Macll ray’s room. The sound of my own 
knuckles as I tapped at the door and the brusque imperative- 
ness of his “ En trez ” in reply did something to dissipate the 
still lingering sense of the general unreality of things. Mac- 
Ilray told me afterward that he had never in his life seen a 
face on which the expression of pure horror was fixed so vivid- 
ly.' i can well believe that, in the memory of the reflection 
of my own expression which I saw in his. He darted at me, 
and threw one arm about me. 

“ For all sakes, man,” he demanded, “what’s the matter? 
Where is it? Are you hurt?” 

He moved me to a chair, and, kneeling down beside me, 
passed his hands over me from head to foot with a rapid, 
skillful-feeling touch, like that of a practiced surgeon. Then 
rising, and keeping a backward glance upon me, he went 
swiftly to a cupboard, and producing from it a bottle of 
cognac, poured out a wine-glassful, and, returning, held it to 
my lips. I drank it eagerly, and the spirit burned like fire 
and set me coughing. It steadied my nerves, however, and 
set my heart at work again with a more healthful action. 

“ Denham, my lad,” said Macllray, standing over me, wine- 
glass in hand, “ ye look as if ye’d seen a ghost.” 

“ I have,” I answered. 

He stared at me in pure amazement. 

“ I’m a believer in many things,” he responded, “ but I’m 
no believer in ghosts, until I can trap one for myself, and sub- 
mit him to a chemical analysis. Just think it out, lad. What 
is it that’s scared ye?” 

I made a great effort and succeeeded in pulling myself to- 
gether. 

“ I saw,” I answered, “ a minute ago, on the stairs outside, 
a woman over whose grave 1 stood more than three months 
back. I had the certificate of that woman’s death in my 
hands. I saw the tombstone erected on her grave. I myself 
gave the necessary orders for it, and saw them carried out. ” 

“ You’re talking naturally enough,” said Macllray, looking 
at me with a shrewd inquiry. “Are ye sure there’s noth- 
ing—?” He tapped his forehead, “ Fh?” 

“ If,” I answered, “ I am not mad,' or if — and I know bet- 
ter — I have not been the victim of some wild hallucination, I 
have seen that woman. If she is an inmate of this house you 
can not fail to have noticed her. ” 

“ Tell me what she’s like,” he said. 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


125 


“ Dark/^' I answered, with level biaok eyebrows and full 
red lips. She has a swarthy pallor, and she looks at you as if 
she would kill you if she had the power. It’s a haunting face. 
No man who’ has seen it once and taken note of it could forget 
it. A cruel, proud, revengeful, self-disdainful face.” 

“ Ay, man,” he said, nodding at me. “ There’s such a 
woman in the house. Madame Damal she calls herself. She’s 
uncommonly lively in the temper for a woman’s that’s been 
d6ad and buried.” 

Madame Damal?” I answered, confusedly. Does she 
speak French?” 

Speak French?” repeated Macllray. ‘‘ It’s likely she 
would. She’s a French woman born and bred. It’s her native 
language. I suspect, my lad, you’ve just been hit by some 
extraordinary likeness. I confess,” he went on, as if he wished 
to soothe m% “ that I would not have thought that there had 
been two faces like that in the world. I thank my stars, at 
least, that I never sa w another like it. ” 

” These are no two faces,” I answered, obstinately; “ that 
woman is alive. ” 1 

“ Ay, ay,” cried Macllray, half pettishly, “ that woman is 
alive. But the dead one isn’t. I don’t like these uncanny 
fancies, and I’ll just tell you what we’ll do, lad. It’s denner- 
time in half an hour. ” A bell clanged loudly through the 
house at this moment. ‘‘ There’s the warning for it. Ye’ll 
calm your nerves, and come down with me to denner. It hap- 
pens, to my oft disturbance, that I^sit opposite the lady. Ye’ll 
have a chance for a good look at her, and ye’ll sleep none the 
worse for being sure that you’ve been mistaken.” 

' I am half ashamed to say it, but I shrunk from this ordeal 
with an actual terror. I fought it down, however, and resolved 
that I would go through with it. Macllray fell into a reverie 
from which he awoke with his accustomed^ sonorous watch- 
word of sympathy and approval. “Ay, ay, Denham^ Ay, 
ay, lad!” when the second bell rang. 

Ye’re all right now, lad? Ye’re not going to make an 
exhibition of yourself?” he asked me, as we went down-stairs 
together. I answered that he might rely upon me, and we 
entered the dining-room. Macllray, with a jjourish of polite- 
ness, introduced me to the lady of the house. Monsieur 
Denham, 7non coUegue, quisera iin de ces jours imlmnine re~ 
marquable.^^ This gave me something of a start, but I sus- 
pected Macllray a moment later of a friendly intention to turn 
me from the contemplation of the one idea which filled my 


126 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


mind. He chattered with more than common fluency to the 
landlady, and dragged me neck and heels into the conversation. 

We were among the first arrivals at table. By and by others 
came in, to the number of twenty, and we all sat down. The 
space opposite Macllray was vacant, and remained vacant until 
the fish was served. Then the woman whom I had seen upon 
the stairs came in and took her seat there. I experienced no 
new shock, but her face held me with an urgent fascination, 
and 1 was compelled again and again, in spite of myself, fo 
peruse every feature of her face even when I had arrived at a 
fixed and rooted certainty. She spoke once or twice in the 
voice that I remembered, but with an accent so finished and 
natural that it would have been impossible to any one to whom 
the language had not been customary from infancy. Some- 
times the intentness of my regard drew hers upon me, but she 
never gave me once the faintest sign of recognition. The 
cruel, self-despising, all-despising eyes looked straight into 

mine, and were withdrawn with all their old indifferent 
hauteur. Certain as I was of her identity, the perfect indiffer- 
ence of her manner shook me once or twice, and even when it 
made the weakest impression upon me, served to sustain the 
tumult of my mind. 

The dinner might have lasted a year rather than an hour; 
but at length it was over. The ladies rose and moved away. 
The men settled down about the windows and lighted their 
cigarettes. Macllray and I were left alone, and he drew me 
by a gesture to the far end of the room. Standing there and 
looking upward at a print, with his head critically on one side, 
as if he were examining it, he let fall a single word of question: 

“Well?^^ 

That is the woman I responded. 

“ Did she ever know you,^^ Macllray asked, “ in the days 
before she died an(i got buried?^’ 

“ She knew me,^' I answered, and had reason to remem- 
ber me.'’^ 

She^s a very pretty actress, in that case,^’ he said. 

I had had time to think this extraordinary matter over, and 
I had come to my own conclusions. 

‘‘That woman,^’ I said, deliberately, laying a hand upon 
Macllray’s breast and looking him calmly in the face, “ has 
entered into a conspiracy with a little Jew solicitor in London 
to spread abroad the false intelligence of her own death, in 
order that her husband, whom she hates, shall be entrapped 
into contracting a marriage with another woman. She prom- 
ised, in my hearing, to make his life a burden to him, and this 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 




is the way in which she has chosen to make that promise 
good.^’ 

I saw a change in his face as I spoke, and I saw, though I 
could not tell why, that he had abandoned his mistrust. 

Hold your tongue one moment, man,^^ he said. “ DonH 
speak to me. Let me tliink. A little Jew solicitor? An over- 
dressed man with white teeth. Ay, ay! He’s been here.” 

“ His name,” I said, ‘‘ was — ?” 

Wait!” cried Macllray. “ His name was ” — I could see 
him searching in his own mind, and the light in his face told 
me that he had recalled it before he spoke the word — “ Gold- 
smith.” 

‘‘ That is the man,” I answered, “ and this woman is the 
wife. Heaven help him, of my dearest friend!” 


CHAPTER XX. 

I REACHED London in the gray of a dismal morning, and, 
carrying my portmanteau with me, made my way on foot 
through the silent streets toward Pole’s chambers. So far as 
I remember to have noted, nothing whatever in the aspect of 
the court was changed, and yet somehow all was changed. A 
difference had fallen upon everything^ and the place had that 
look of unfamiliar familiarity which is the most damping and 
disheartening of all aspects to one who revisits old and well- 
remembered scenes. 

The court was quiet and deserted, as was natural at that 
early hour. The* gate-keeper slumbered in his sentry-box, 
outside the iron gate, and I passed through the door which led 
to Pole’s rooms unnoticed. I could read through the half 
gloom of the passage the white letters in which his name was 
inscribed upon the black paint of the door, and I stood inde- 
terminately, not venturing to disturb the silence. 1 had spent 
a sleepless night and had been unhappy enough all the jour- 
ney through. It was no light or pleasant task to have laid 
upon one’s self — the task of pulling one’s dearest friend’s 
house of happiness down about his ears. 

I set my portmanteau down stealthily, and sat down upon it 
for a time, resolved to wait. There was no use in disturbing 
Pole, no need to hasten the delivery of the dreadful intelligence 
I carried. But by and by the singing silence of the stai»case, 
the creaking noise the old stairs made under the tread of in- 
visible feet, and the uneasiness of my own mind got the better 
of me and made my continued watch there almost an impossi- 
bility. I stole down-stairs quietly, like a thief, to look at the 


m 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


door of my own old chambers. An oblong streak of black 
paint, fresher than the rest, obliterated my name, and over it 
was painted that of W. Whitehouse. I shall never in the least 
know why, but I figured W. Whitehouse as a man in spatter- 
dashes and a light waistcoat. He wore a' white hat with a 
black band, and looked fast and rakish. In the absurdest 
vague way in the world this visionary Whitehouse seemed to 
double the depressing influences which already rested upon me, 
^d I stole silently down the court again, and went back into 
Holborn. Signs of life were already visible there, and the few 
passers-by had such an interest as one feels for strangers when 
living in a village. Everything was comfortless: the lotiff, 
unbroken perspective of the streets, the white sky, the smoke- 
less chimneys, the closed windows of shops, like dead eyes with 
weights upon them to keep the eyelids down. 1 was in a mood 
wretched euough to be fantastic, and weary enough to be irre- 
sponsible in fantasy. 

I stood at a late coffee-stall and drank a cup of coffee, and 
outside of Pole^s door. I waited there 
until I fell into a little dreamy doze, and was awakened by the 
laundress, who came clanking upstairs with a broom and pail, 
bhe stared to see me, and 1 felt ashamed of being detected, as 
it i had been l^und on some foolish or dishonorable enterprise. 

Ea. Mr. Denham, said the laundress, Whatever are 
you a-doing here, sir?"" 

I told her I had not cared to disturb Pnip. af cp 




This was a respite, after a fashion, and to a very slight de- 

‘ee I was unrpacp-nQmTr rm_ , ° 


n 1 i . ° . VrV — iju U.UUV lur ine aav tnat 

Pole was staying at W orborough Court, my own way lay quite 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


1^9 


plainly before me. I found that there was no train for the 
west of England until six o’clock, and since my only oppor- 
tunity of seeing Clara had to be taken before that hour arrived, 
I started for Cromwell TeiTace. 

Apart from my discovery I should have had nothing but good 
news and high hope to carry with me, but that discovery gave 
its own miserable color to everything in my mind. I made a 
resolute endeavor to look bright and cheerful, and determined 
that I would express nothing but the most hopeful sentiments. 
It would be quite early enough for Mary Delamere to know 
that this shadow had fallen upon her way when I could no 
longer hide the knowledge from her. At present she lived in 
a happy blindness, and though she must needs soon be rudely 
awakened to the truth, I was glad of every minute’s delay. 

It appeared afterward that Mrs. Grantley, Mary Delamere 
and Clara were together at the moment when my arrival was 
announced^ and that Clara was at once for flying to meet me, 
but that mamma laid restraining orders upon her. The elder 
lady came in alone and received me, as I fancied, with a rather 
ioy kindness. 

“ I hope, Mr. Denham,” she said, ‘‘ that you have not been 
dissipating in Paris. You are not looking so well as you were 
when you left London. ” 

I tried to answer this implied accusation lightly, and feeling 
that the attempt was a dismal failure began to look awkward 
and probably a little guilty. She shook her head at me severe- 
ly, and said she was assured that I had been keeping abomina- 
ble hours. I answered that I had traveled from Paris without 
pause, and was a little tired by the journey. She shook her 
head once more with a doubtful aspect, and dre\y her lips to 
an expression which announced plainly that I was a melan- 
choly example. This was so bad a beginning that I was 
spurred to make amendment for it, and I entered upon an ac- 
count of my labors and successes, which by and by became en- 
thusiastic and carried some conviction with it. She relaxed a 
little, and after a quarter of an hour’s talk, observing doubt- 
less my frequent and eager glances toward the door, she sailed 
away and dispatched Clara to me. 

Clara was not long in remarking that I was somehow 
changed and depressed. She, unlike mamma, was confident 
that my sustained and heroic efforts in the cause of love and 
letters were answerable for my altered appearance. I must 
have been a poor dissembler, for in spite of all that I could do 
she found me out in the first five minutes, and was convinced 
that something dreadful had befallen me. 


130 


THK AVEAKER VESSEL. 


“ You can^fc deny it, John/’ she said, looking at me with 
frightened eyes, and holding one of my hands in both her own. 
‘‘ Tell me what it is. You wicked boy! you have somehow 
been getting into trouble. 

That at least 1 could and did deny with a clear conscience. 
I painted my own prospects in the rosiest tints, and did my 
painting with so hang-dog an air that she would have been less 
shrewd than I knew her to be if 1 had succeeded in deceiving 
her. 

“ It is of no use to pretend with me,"*^ she told me. “ You 
are the worst actor I ever saw in my life. There is something 
on your mind. I insist either that you shall lay your hand 
upon your heart and declare solemnly that you have nothing 
in the world to be annoyed or disturbed about, or that you 
shall tell me what it is.'’ ^ 

She said this with an admirable air of lightness and vivacity, 
but her eyes were troubled, and she was very serious beneath 
her pretense of comedy. I yielded so far as to tell her that I 
had very disturbing intelligence, though it in no way con- 
cerned my personal affairs. 

“In no way?^^ she demanded. “ If it doesn^t concern you 
in any way, why should you be disturbed by it?^^ 

“ It concerns me only,'’^ I replied, “ inasmuch as it must 
make others whom I value dearly very unhappy.-’^ 

Thereupon I began to feel that it was a dreadful thing to 
find myself in the act of wishing that the news of anybody's 
death should be confirmed, or regretting that the intelligence 
should be disproved. Yet there was no disguising it. In all 
honesty the news of that wretched woman^s death had brought 
relief to everybody concerned with her, and the certainty that 
the news was false would be the most dreadful blow that could 
possibly be inflicted upon two innocent people, who had never 
wished her harm or tried to wrong her. The common sense 
of the position was as clear as daylight, but the sentiment nat- 
ural to the circumstances hung a veil before it. 

“You are bound to hear the news,^^ I said, gloomily, at 
last, “ and my only reason for not telling it now is that I see 
no good in forestalling trouble for some one else who would be 
sure to hear it from you.'’^ 

“ Who do you mean?” she asked me. 

“Promise me,” I said, “that you will keep the news to 
yourself, and that you will show no sign of it to anybody in 
this housed” 

“ In this house?” she repeated. 1 nodded in answer, and 
she, seizing my arm nervously with both hands, looked at me 


THE WEAKEE VESSEL. 


131 


for a second or two in an alarmed perplexity. “ You have 
bad news for Mary, ” she said, then, with eyes suddenly widened 
with terror. .“You have heard something about Mr. Pole. 
What is the matter with him?^^ 

“His wife, I answered, “is alive. I saw her the night 
before last in Paris. 

Clara sprung to her feet with clasped hands, and a cry of 
dismay and terror. Before the words had well left my lips I 
had seen the handle of the door turn, and before I could make 
a sign to repress the ejaculation which burst from her lips the 
door opened and the surprised face of Mary Delamere appeared 
at the entrance to the room. Clara heard the opening door, 
and, turning, made an impetuous movement toward her friend. 

“ What is it?^^ cried Miss Delamere, advancing swiftly. 
Clara and I stood miserably silent before her, looking helpless- 
ly one at the other. Some sort* of explanation was unescapa- 
ble. 

“ I am the bearer of strange news,^^ 1 said. “ Clara was 
startled by it. , 

To say that Clara was startled was but feebly to describe 
her condition. She had grown deathly pale, and so trembled 
from head to foot that she could hardly stand. Mary set an 
arm about her waist, and led her to an arm-chair, and there 
knelt beside her. 

“ Give me a glass of water, Mr. Denham, she said, quiet- 
ly. “ There is a carafe on the sideboard.'’^ 

I obeyed her, and Clara sipped the proffered water and 
dropped a tear or two into tho tumbler. Then she handed 
the glass to me with an appearance of recovering her compos- 
ure, and suddenly crowned my misery by bursting into tears 
with her arms about Mary^s neck. 

‘ ‘ I think you had better leave us for a moment, Mr. Den- 
ham,'’^ said Miss Delamere, looking round upon me with a 
glance of keen inquiry. 

“ No!^^ cried Clara. “ You mustnT go away, John. You 
must stay here. I was surprised and shaken at first, but I am 
better now. She composed herself by an obvious effort, and, 
embracing Mary anew, begged her to leave the room for a 
minute or two. “ John,^^ she said, “ has brought very strange 
news indeed, if it should prove to be true. But it is not yet 
proved to be true, and I am not going to distress those who 
love me for what may be only a fancy. Go away, dear, for a 
little while, and let me find out whether 1 really have any- 
thing to be afraid of. You need not look that way at John, 
Mary. She tried to say this with an air of merriment, which 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


threatened for a moment to result in hysteria. ‘‘It is no 
fault of his, even if the thing is true. 

She threw her arms about Miss Delamere agp,in, and em- 
braced her almost convulsively. Then she half led and half 
pushed her from the room, and, closing the door, turned to- 
ward me with a white but resolute face. 

“ What do you know?'"’ she asked, twining her fingers hard 
together. “ Tell me what you know.'’^ 

I told her in as few words as I could find of my visit to 
Macllray, my encounter with Mrs. Pole upon the staircase, and 
of her manner at the dinner-table. She was deeply impressed 
at first, but when 1 mentioned my own bewilderment at the 
change of name the woman had adopted, and at the complete 
purity of her French accent, I could see Clara^s face brighten- 
ing. 

“ You have been frightened by a resemblance,^^ she said. 

“ No,"’^ I answered, “ the thing is only too certain. And 
I went on to tell of Macllray '’s identification of the little Jew 
solicitor. Her face fell again, and I saw that she shared my 
own certainty, though she strove to combat it. She was evi- 
dently resolved to be calm and strong, though in spite of her- 
self her voice trembled as she spoke. 

“ What are you going to do?^^ she asked. 

“ I am going, I answered, “ in the first place to telegraph 
to Paris to say that my return to-morrow is impossible. Next, 
I am going down by the six-oYlock train to Exeter. I shall 
wire to Pole to meet me there. I shall tell him the story, and 
leave him to act upon it as he may see fit.'’^ 

“ I suppose,” she said, “ he will see fit to go to Paris, but 
that woman, if she is really Mrs. Pole, is not likely to be in the 
same house when you get there. Wire to your friend Mr. 
Macllray, and tell him to have her movements watched. She 
would be at least as certain to know you as you were to know 
her. You did not disguise yourself by speaking an unexpected 
language. 

Now I had done nothing but chase up and down in my own 
mind the sensible, necessary, and practical things to do, and 
yet it had never occurred to me to think that the woman on 
whose identifiction everything depended might choose to com- 
plicate our difficulties by evading inquiry. Yet, directly the 
thought was suggested to me, I saw that there was nothing 
more certain in the world. The chances against her lying 
there waiting to be caught were a million to one. I was for 
starting at once to repair my stupidity as far as possible by a 


THE WEAKEK VESSEL. 133 

telegram to Macllray when Clara bade me wait a moment, 
and rang the bell. 

‘‘We will see Mary together before you go/* she said, with 
a self-possession which did her infinite credit in my eyes. 

‘ ‘ She will be less likely to be alarmed or disturbed if she 
knows that we have come to an understanding to do some- 
thing, and if we seem to put a bold front upon the matter. A 
day or two is not much, John, but I should value a day or 
two^s ignorance if you and I were going to be parted. , 

The maid, appearing in answer to the bell, was instructed to 
summon Miss Delamere, and a minute later Mary entered the 
room. Clara, who was by this time quite mistress of herself, 
relieved me of the task of explanation. 

“We have talked things over,^’ she began, with her arm 
about the other’s waist, and looking at her with a smiling, 
mournful tenderness. “John has brought very serious and 
surprising news, but we are not yet certain that it is true. We 
can know all about it if we exercise a little patience^, and he is 
going to make inquiries. ” 

“If the news is bad news, dear,” said Miss Delamere, “ I 
hope it may be contradicted. If it is very bad news 1 am sure 
you bear it bravely, and I am sure you will bear it bravely, 
even should it prove to be true. ” 

“ I should never bear trouble so well as you would,” Clara 
answered. There was a meaning in her words for her and me 
which could hardly be expected to reach Miss Delamere’s 
mind. “We must dismiss all thought of this,” Clara con- 
tinued, “ until we hear decisively; and you must promise not 
to ask any questions about it until I speak of it again. ” 

The promise was given, and, as 1 knew afterward, w:as kept, 
though one hears occasionally of feminine curiosity, and there 
was probably enough here to excite it to considerable activity. 
1 took my leave almost at once, and went off to dispatch my 
telegrams. I delayed my message to Pole until I could lay 
hands upon a Bradshaw, and could find in its pages the name 
of a hotel in Exeter. I found what I wanted at an old-fash- 
ioned tavern where I made a pretense of dining. Then I 
sent off my message, making it as urgent as I could without 
expressing Pole’s actual concern in the affair, and took the 
evening express. 


CHAPTER XXL 

It was dusk already within the limits of the station, but the 
train glided into a new day outside, and the autumn sunlight 


134 


THE WEAKER TESSEL. 


was clear and beautiful. Once beyond the line of houses, and 
rushing through the peaceful fields, I surrendered myself to 
the contemplation of the scenery with that curious indiffer- 
ence which I suppose everybody has experienced at times of 
mental tension or trouble. I remember that when, years be- 
fore this story opened, I was awaiting news of my mother, who 
lay in the room above me, hovering between life and death, 
my whole heart and thoughts were concentrated on the effort 
to set a fiower-jar in the exact middle of the window-sill it stood 
on. Nothing in the world seemed to me so important as a 
mathematical accuracy in that poor achievement. As I rode 
westward 1 recalled that episode in my history, and likened my 
present condition of mind to my feelings of that hour, so that 
I was able' to know that 1 was less indifferent than I felt. 
There was a gorgeous sunset, which gilded all the fields and 
made the face of one of my fellow-passengers glow like hot 
metal, burnished. Then the night came down. My fellow- 
travelers left me midway in the journey, and I tried to com- 
pose myself for sleep. This 1 soon discovered to be an abso- 
lute impossibility. The jolting of the carriage and the rolling 
of wheels took up all manner of senseless and irritating re- 
frains, and sung them over and over again until I was sick and 
angry. One in particular, the chorus of a song supposed by 
the general populace to be comic, and in reality not more or 
less idiotic than a hundred others of its kind which I have 
known before and since, insisted on returning with such a per- 
severance as no cheering, enlightening thought, or fancy any- 
how reasonable and human, has displayed since the world be- 
gan — “ Slap, bang! here we are again. I tried to remember 
and to repeat verses, and before I had traveled through the 
first four lines of Poe^s Raven, ‘‘ Slap, bang! there we 
were again, there we were again, there we were again; slap, 
bang; there we were again; what jolly dogs were we!'^ , I got 
out my note-book, and tried to study its pages by the light of 
the sickly yellow lamp, but the oil washed to and fro in the 
dirty glass basin and made the very flame wink to that abom- 
inable tune and those unmeaning words. The wheels ground 
them out remorselessly, and the carriage creaked and rattled, 
and complained all over. For we always were “ so jolly, oh! 
so jolly, oh! so jolly, oh! we always were so jolly, oh! what 
jolly dogs were we !^^ I gave up trying to do anything, and 
traveled on to Exeter in a dumb and anguished resignation to 
that brutal melody. 

1 hardly knew whether I was shocked or relieved to find Pole 
standing on the platform at two o’clock in the morning to re- 


THE WEAKEE VESSEL. 


135 


ceive me. He was ordinarily very cool about his demonstra- 
tions of friendship, but he shook me by the hand with what 
was, for him, an unwonted show of warmth, and clawed me 
affectionately by the shoulder. At our first encounter his face 
was in the light, and mine in the dark, and I could see a 
marked difference in him. He had grown quite handsome in 
this last three months, and a look of settled, strong serenity 
had taken the place of the stern air of self-control which had 
been used to characterize him. He had brought a fiy with 
him from the hotel, and, laying hold of my portmanteau, he 
carried it out of the station, and set it down on the front seat 
of the vehicle. We mounted, and the man rumbled away. 

“lam glad to see you, old chap,^' said Pole, cheerily,, clap- 
ping his hand upon my knee. “ I suppose you have been hav- 
ing fine times in Paris. 

It was evident that he suspected nothing unusual as yet. I 
could see that he supposed me to have run down to Exeter 
simply for the pleasure of spending an hour or two in his 
society. > 

“ 1 was out when your telegram came,^^ he went on, when 1 
had answered his last question with some commonplace, ‘ ‘ but 
I got in an hour after it was delivered, and found that I 
just had time to catch the up-train. So, guessing that you 
wouldn^t have a great deal of time to spare — your last letter 
told me that — I thought it best to run up at once, and catch 
you on arrival. When have you to get back again?'^ 

“ As soon as possible,^’ I told him. “ 1 exceeded my leave 
to come do wn here. 

“ Then,^^ said he, “ if you^re not too tired, we’ll make a 
sober night of it, and have a good, long, satisfactory jaw. You 
can sleep going up by train to-morrow. I’ve been on the point 
of making a dash over to look at you half a dozen times, but, 
what with the poor old fellow down at Worborough and a cer- 
tain affair that holds me in London when I get a chance to go 
there, I’ve missed doing it.” 

My arrival seemed to have put him in unusually high spirits. 
His voice was changed, and had a ring of jollity in it I had 
never heard before. It cut me to the heart to think of the 
message 1 had to deliver to him, and for the moment I re- 
coiled before my own enterprise with a complete cowardice. 
My cowardice was so complete, indeed, that I did at one mo- 
ment actually resolve not to deliver my tidings at all in person, 
but to go away and write them. This abject condition did not 
endure long, however, and by the time at which the hotel was 
reached I had recovered my courage. 


136 THE WEAKER VESSEL. 

“I have taken a sitting-room/^ said Pole, cheerily, and 
there^s a bit of a cold spread laid out there in case you're hun- 
gry. Carry the portmanteau to this gentleman's room, J ohn, 
and then, so far as we are concerned, you can go to bed." 

He led the way upstairs to a cheerful apartment, where can- 
dles burned upon the table and the mantel-piece, and a small 
fire glowed upon the hearth. 

“ Would you like a wash first?" he demanded, laying both 
hands upon my shoulders. For the first time he saw my face 
clearly, and he looked at me with a sudden anxiety. “ Jack, 
old man, what's the matter with you? You're looking quite 
ill, and worn, and miserable. What is it? Ho ill luck, I 
hope?" 

I could scarcely speak, and 1 do not know to this hour in 
what words I broke the news. I can s6e his ghastly face, of 
mingled incredulity and horror, clearly — as clearly as I saw it 
then. 

“You're mad, Denham!" he said. “I saw her grave. 
You were with me when Goldsmith brought the certificate of 
her death. " 

It was, I told him, a most wicked and abominable plot. 
What means had been employed I could only guess at, but the 
object of the cheat was clear. His wife had effaced herself for 
the time to trap him into marrying again, and then to make 
his life a burden, as she had promised in my hearing. Gold- 
smith had entered into the scheme, as I surmised, partly from 
hatred, and partly in the hope of levying blackmail. I set 
the narrative of my discovery before him clearly, and told him 
of Macllray's memory of Goldsmith's visit. 

“There is but one thing," I said, “which seems to go 
against her identity. She speaks French as only a French 
woman might be supposed to speak it. " 

“ She spoke nothing else," he answered, “ until she was 
twelve years of age. She was born in Paris. " 

When the first shock of my intelligence was over, he had 
taken one of his old lounging poses in a corner of the apart- 
ment, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets and one foot 
thrown across the other. He listened with bent head to all I 
had to say, and when I ceased to speak looked up at me. 

“ Well," he said, with an odd laugh, “ I suppose it's true. 
It's like my luck. You'd better have a glass of wine, Den- 
ham. You're a bit knocked up, old man. " 

He lounged over to the table oil which the supper was laid 
out, with its white napkins and glittering electro-plate, and 
there uncorked a bottle. He filled two wine-glasses, and held 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


137 


one out toward me. My shaking hand spilled half its contents 
on the carpet, but he drained his own, and, sitting down, 
drew a cigar-case from his pocket, and, having lighted a cigar, 
sat smoking with apparent tranquillity, inspecting the ash of 
the tobacco and the texture of the cigar as if his judgment on 
its quality were a matter of some importance. Recalling once 
more my own youthful experience at the time of my mother^s 
illness and its renewal of that very night, I knew so well what 
that seeming indifference covered that it looked heart-break- 
ing to me. 

‘‘For Heaven^s sake, Pole,^^ I besought him, “ don^t take 
it that way. 

I think I was half beside myself with pity, and a foolish, un- 
availing remorse that it was I who had struck this blow. 

“ My dear, boy, he said, “ it^s got to be taken. I must 
take it how I can.^^ 

1 sat watching him in an unhappy silence while he smoked, 
and seemed to take no note of anything. When the cigar had 
dwindled to a mere stump he threw it into the fire-place, and 
sauntered up and down the room, pausing here and there to 
inspect the prints upon the wall. Twice he laughed to him- 
self, with a mockery which was dreadful to hear, a bitter, 
mirthless chuckle of half a dozen notes. 

“ Suppose,’"’ he said, at last, “ that I don’t believe this story, 
Denham? There’s more than one Jew named Goldsmith in 
the world. ” 

“ You can’t act,” I answered, “ as if you didn’t believe it.” 

“ N^o, no, no,” he said, as if he were repelling some unin- 
teresting and commonplace stupidity. “ 1 can’t act as if I 
didn’t believe it. But all the same, I won’t believe it till I 
know. You’re going back to Paris?” . 

“ Yes,” I said, “ I must get back as soon as possible. I 
should have been on my way now if I had not been obliged to 
see you. ” 

“ Well,” he answered, calmly, “ it couldn’t have been a 
very pleasant task for you, and I’m very much obliged to you. 
I’ll go to Paris with you, and we’ll look into things. There’s 
an up express at eight. We’ll take it together.” 

I had not formed any conception of the manner in which he 
would receive the news. I could hardly have conceived him 
as accepting anything unless with self-possession and like a 
man, but the spectacle of his extreme quietude was harder to 
endure than any outbreak from a man of softer fiber would 
have been. We sat the remnant of the night through, keeping 
silence for the most part, though sometimes Pole would open 


138 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


an indiSerent theme, and talk upon it for a moment or two. 
When sounds about the house assured us that the servants were 
astire, he rang the bell. The candles had burned down in 
their sockets, and the morning light already stole in grayly 
upon our haggard faces, on the unmoved dish-covers and the 
gray ashes of the extinguished fire. The waiter, who appeared 
in morning neglige, stared at us in a faint wonder. Pole wrote 
out a telegram, gave the waiter instructions to remove the un- 
tasted meal, and ordered breakfast. His message was ad- 
dressed to Lord Worborough, and stated simply that I had 
brought news of prime importance which took him away for a 
day or two. We filled up the time of waiting for breakfast in 
our separate bedrooms. I was not conscious of any wish to 
sleep, but a cold bath removed a good deal of the fatigue which 
naturally lay upon me, and dissipated for the time a heavy 
headache, which had felt to me like a part of Pole^s unhappi- 
ness. 

Neither of us eat much when the breakfast came, and the 
time drawled on wearily, the very ticking of the clock seeming 
to have slowed down on purpose to retard our departure. The 
express sauntered idly Lend on ward — nothing could have seemed 
quick enough to my unreasoning impatience. There was no 
delivery beyond, no relief nor hope to hasten to. Yet if I had 
had wings as swift as meditation I could not have gone faster 
than I desired. 

Pole, who had supplied himself with necessities for the night 
only, went to his own chambers, and there packed a portman- 
teau. He was fond of having everything which appertained to 
his own personal requirements fine and rich, and he got to- 
gether all his pretty trifles with a mechanical precision. We 
dined at a restaurant, and took the evening train. In my 
own case nature asserted herself after all the fatigue I had un- 
dergone, and I slept uneasily most of the way to Dover, and 
again after the passage of the channel. Whenever my slum- 
bers broke I opened my eyes to see Pole sitting opposite to me 
grave and impassive. The old, hard look was back upon his 
face, and was intensified tenfold. . He looked as if he were go- 
ing to lead a forlorn hope, or to be hanged, and was deter- 
mined to take the inevitable without a sign. He was in all my 
waking thoughts, and in all my dreams. I fell over scores of 
yawning precipices on that mournful journey, but never once 
without Pole having fallen over the edge before me, or his fall- 
ing with me, or his cry, as he followed, startling me to a wak- 
ing knowledge scarcely more endurable than my dreams. 

Beaching Paris, we repaired at once to the Boulevard Hauss- 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


139 


mann, and there, leaving our portmanteaus in the fiacre at 
the door, we mounted to Macllray’s room. I had told Pole 
of my message to him, and my fear lest Mrs. Pole should have 
vanished in the certainty that I had recognized her, and we 
had decided to visit Macllray first of all. That good Scot was 
already up and half attired, pottering about his room in dress- 
ing-gown and slippers. He recognized Pole at once from a 
portrait of him he had seen in my possession, and said as much 
with an amiable cordiality. 

You got the message I sent you by wire?^^ I asked. 

‘‘ Ay/^ he said; “ I got it; but 1 got it an hour too late. 
The birdie^s flown, lad. 

I glanced at Pole and saw, by his face, that he accepted this 
as strong confirmation of my story, though 1 knew well enough 
that at the bottom of his mind the story had no need of con- 
firmation. He drew a leathern portfolio of rather unusual size 
from his pocket, and from this produced two or three photo- 
graphs. The photographer's art had not reached to anything 
like its present excellence of delicacy, but the likeness in these 
sun-pictures, though a little hard, was unmistakable. 

“ Two identifications,^^ said Pole, quietly, “ are stronger 
than one. Is that the lady Mr. Denham believed himself to 
recognize 

“ The verra woman, Macllray declared, when he had 
found and polished his gold-rimmed spectacles. “ There^s no 
mistake in the world about that. The likeness would just 
hang her. I suppose,^^ he added, with a manner which robbed 
his speech of its apparent brusquerie, “ I suppose, sir, ye"ll be 
the unhappy husband. Denham named no names, but yeYe 
always on his tongue, and he said she was the wife of his 
dearest friend, so that I was inclined to suppose Twas you."'' 
There he fell into a little reverie over the photographs as they 
lay upon the table. He rubbed his red hair fretfully until it 
stood up everywhere, and came to his unvarying conclusion, 
“ Ay, ay, Denham! Ay, ay, man! Ay, ay!^^ It was spoken 
with a tone of profound melancholy, but he brightened into 
eagerness a moment later. “I hope,^^ he said, “ that I\e 
done the right thing. These police in Paris are just demons, 
and if once they get hold of a thing they’ll worry you to death 
about it. I evitated them, and went to a first-rate maison de 
confiance within an hour and a half of the lady having left the 
house; and I’ve one other bit of news for you. I foupd this — ” 
he rummaged in his coat-pockets, and by and by produced 
a telegram, dated from London, addressed to Mme. Damal, 
and bearing these words only : Partez smis delai pour 


140 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


Lyons.^^ “ She dropped that upon the table/^ he said, and 
leit it behind her.'’^ , 

“ That/’ said Pole, taking it up and letting it flutter back 
to the table, ‘‘ is nothing but a blind. If she leaves word in 
that way that she has gone to Lyons, Lyons is the one place 
in the world she will not go to. ” 


CHAPTER XXIL 

We found, upon inquiry, that the private agent employed 
by Macllray had already been at work to some effect. Know- 
ing the precise hour at which Mrs. Pole had left the house, 
and having a fairly accurate description of her personal ap- 
pearance and attire from Macllray, he had had little difficulty 
in finding the driver who had transported her and her luggage 
to the Gare de Lyons. The driver remembered the lady per- 
fectly well for one or two reasons. In the first place, she was 
strikingly dressed in a Mephistophelian mixture of black and 
scarlet; in the second place the cocker seemed to have an eye 
for a handsome woman, aiid described his fare as ^^fierement 
helle finally, her curious proceedings at the station had ex- 
cited his wonder. At the moment of his arrival there a train 
had just discharged its passengers, and the man had lingered 
in the hope of picking up a new fare. He saw the lady whose 
luggage he .had just assisted in dismounting from his own 
vehicle in the act of chartering another fiacre. He saw the 
luggage placed upon the roof, and heard the lady’s order to be 
driven to the Gare de I’Est. 

The agent, being supplied with the photographs, sought the 
driver a second time, and Pole and I accompanied him. The 
man recognized the face at once. That was undoubtedly the 
lady he had driven. Pole, who looked less interested either 
than the driver or myself, less interested even than the agent, 
held out one of the photographs for the coachman’s observa- 
tion, and bade him look at it attentively. Was it not possible, 
he asked, just possible that he had been misled by a strong 
likeness? The man shook his head. 

“ If I were to tell you,” said Pole, “ that this lady is dead 
and buried, what should you say?” 

Nothing at all,” the coachman answered; “ I do not per- 
mit myself to say impolite things.” 

“ You would not believe it?” 

“ Assuredly I should not believe it.” 

Pole feed the man for the trouble he had given him, and 
then, having surrendered the portrait to the agent for his 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


141 


assistance, he went away to the hotel he had chosen for him- 
self, and left me to the pursuit of my ordinary avocations. I 
am free to confess that Mcllray and I consumed a good deal 
of the office time that day and for some days afterward in the 
discussion of this surprising topic. 

“ He^s a cool hand, yon,^^ said Macllray, referring to Pole. 
“ I was at a loss with the man to begin with. He^s one of 
those people that would like you to think theyVe a cannon 
ball in their bosoms instead of a heart, but it^s my opinion 
that he^s a trifle more feeling than he’d have ye thenk him. 
There-’s a kyind o’ man that has just a savage idea of pairsonal 
degnity, and that lives in a house with every window close 
shuttered. I’m not sure that there isn’t the wildest sort o’ 
high-jenks going on within doors, for all so quiet as the house 
may look on the outside. ” 

I told him that this was very much my own opinion, and 
indeed that I knew Pole to be a man of very profound and 
sensitive feeling. 

“ The lady &s the* pull of him there very distinctly,” said 
the Scot. “Not that she hasn’t her feelings, too, but she 
makes a luxury of them. A real flaming quarrel to a pairson 
of that desposition is nothing less than a Heaven-sent blessing. 
I wish the poor young gentleman well through with the busi- 
ness, It’s a mighty petty to see a fine, straight-grown young 
fellow like yon in such a strait.” 

Macllray took the story, so far as he was allowed to know 
it, very much to heart, and his contemplative “ Ay, ay, Den- 
ham ” grew much more frequent than of old, and took a 
mournful and almost despondent tone. 

Pole had given me no invitation to join him, and I took it 
for granted that he would have preferred to be alone. I did 
my best to keep away from him, and for one whole day suc- 
ceeded. At the end of that time I could wait no longer for a 
message from him, and I went to see him. He had taken 
apartments high up in a big hotel of the newer fashion, and 
when I entered his room he was seated, pen in hand, at a table 
by the window. He glanced at me across his shoulder and 
bade me wait a minute or two while he finished his letter. I 
sat down at the opposite side of the table and could see his 
face clearly. It was stern and composedly set, but, unless I 
was much mistaken, there were signs in it of a recent sur- 
render to his troubles. A handkerchief lay upon the table 
near his hand. It was much crumpled and very moist, and 1 
drew my own conclusions from the evidehce which it and his 
eyes afforded. 


U2 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


I heard the rapid scrawl of his signature following on the 
more deliberately written text, and he looked up at me. 

That^s over/^ he said, laying a sheet of blotting-paper 
upon the letter and smoothing it with a resolute and heavy 
hand. 

I did not answer him in words, and when he hM folded the 
letter and enveloped and addressed it, he tossed it across the 
table to where I sat. I saw that it was addressed to Delamere, 
and I could guess at once the nature of its contents, and the 
emotions Pole had endured in writing it. 

Neither of us said anything of this, however, and each was 
certain that the other understood. 

The agent was here, ” said Pole, a couple of hours ago. 
He came to tell me that he had been to the Gare de PEst with 
the photograph, and had made inquiries there. He found a 
booking clerk who remembered to have given her a ticket, 
but unfortunately he was not able to recall the place for which 
she started. The man proposes now to take the line, station 
by station, to show the photograph everywhere, and make in- 
quiries until he lights upon her. 

“ Is there, I asked him, ‘‘any lingering doubt in your 
mind which makes you pursue this chase 

“ I donT know,^'’ he answered, with an air of great weari- 
ness, “ that I should care to call it a doubt. As a matter of 
fact 1 donT suppose I have any doubt about the matter. But 
there^s a sort of fantastic fancy that I may be chasing a phan- 
tom. It is just strong enough to keep me going till I find 
her. It is not strong enough to keep me here, for I am going 
back to-night. I was coming round to your place to say good- 
bye before starting. 

“ Are you going back to Worborough?^^ I asked, chiefly, 
for the sake of saying something. 

“lam going back to London first, he answered, in a tone 
of weary boredom. Then he straightened himself, and added, 
in a changed voice: “ 1 am going to see Mr. Goldsmith.'’^ 

What there was in the tone, or what I saw in his face to in- 
spire me with so incredible and so wild a fancy as shot into my 
mind at that moment I should find it difficult, if not impossi- 
ble, to tell. If that mad imagination did him wrong, as I do 
now most sincerely believe it did, it has at least long since 
been confessed and forgiven. 

“ For what purpose?^' I asked him, speaking as calmly as 1 
could, though I knew that my voice trembled. 

He did not answer me, but took two or three paces up and 
down the room. 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


143 


“ Pole,” 1 said, laying a hand upon his arm. He turned 
aiid looked at me. If,” 1 continued — “ if you go to see that 
man, I go with you. You shall not visit him alone. ” 

“Very well,” he said. “You can come if you please. I 
supposed you had your work to see to. ” 

“ I can arrange for that,” I answered. “ There are more 
important things than that in the world; and you sha^n^t see 
Goldsmith alone just now if I can help it.” 

“ Very well,” he answered me again; “ you shall have your 
own way.” 

He looked at me with a strange smile, more mournful and 
more tender than any human expression I can remember to 
have seen. 

“ What is the good,” I asked him, “ of going to Goldsmith 
at all? What purpose do you propose to serve? If he is in 
the cheat at all— and we are as certain that he is as we can be 
of anything— you will only put your wife upon her guard, and 
make your discovery of her more difficult. Look the whole 
thing in the face : What is her motive for running away from 
Paris? Fear of you?” 

“ Ho,” said Pole, “ she is not afraid of me, nor of any- 
thing. ^ ^ 

“ She has been seen once,” I continued, “ and has gone 
away in the hope that by her complete disappearance she 
might delude you into the belief that I had been mistaken. I 
can trace the workings of her mind as clearly as if they were 
the action of my own. She argues that the wish is father to 
the thought. She knows you had the solidest grounds for be- 
lieving her dead, and she thinks that in awhile, with the 
passage of time, you will bring yourself to believe my certainty 
a mere suspicion, and so will fall into the hideous trap she set 
for you.” 

“ Does it matter what she thinks?” he asked. 

“ Yes,^^ I answered; “ it obviously matters much. If she 
knows that you are absolutely certain of her existence she 
knows that she has no purpose to serve further, and if you de- 
sire to find her for the satisfaction of that lingering doubt you 
spoke of you will do it far more easily by not giving her warn- 
ing than by giving it.” 

“ I mean to see Goldsmith, all the same,” Pole answered. , 

“ In that case,” I told him, “ I shall go at once to Mac- 
Ilray and make arrangements for another day or two of ab- 
sence. ” 

“ Thak’s agreed upon,” said Pole. “ I would as soon have 
you for a looker-on as anybody.” 


144 


THE WEAKEli VESSEL. 


It was agreed that I should call upon him in time to catch 
the northward express, and so, for a time, we parted. I found 
Macllray at the ofSce and told him of my purpose. 

“ Ye^re a verra reasonable youth, said he, when I had 
made my statement, and 1^11 suppose that ye have a reason 
for this. But there’s two or three things to be looked after, 
and I’m thenking they’ll be getting a little wild in London. 
They seem to have less, appreciation of my leterary style than 
I honestly think I desairve, and they’ll be missing that com- 
pact hand o’ yours. Ye’d best give the chief a look-up in 
town and offer an explanation. ” 

I promised to take that duty upon myself, and was making 
ready to go away when he crossed the room with an air of 
mystery and understanding. 

‘^I’ve been taking,” said he, “ a sympathetic look round, 
and for the space o’ some ten seconds I’ve been mentally occu- 
pying your friend’s position. I^m of openion that ef I were 
in his place I^d be sorely tempted nine tenths to slay that 
blagyard lettle Jew creature. Keep an eye on your friend, 
Denham. He’s a bit of a volcano. He’s tall enough to wear 
ice on the top of him, but that’s no argument against the ex- 
istence of the fire below. ” 

I told Macllray that it was precisely this reflection and no 
other which had persuaded me to accompany Pole to London. 
Hearing this, he shook me warmly by the hand. 

“ There’s a heap o’ wesdom abroad,” he said, “ but there’s 
a wonderful small ambunt of it finds its way into the British 
jury-box. It’s honest human nature to give a fellow like that 
sore bones, but it might go unduly hard with the man that 
ded it. Ye’re on an honest errand, ye’re a decent lad, Den- 
ham, and I’ll just do my best in your absence.” 

There is nothing to tell of the return journey to London, 
except that Pole’s manner throughout it kept that mad in- 
quietude of which I have spoken alive and active. We went 
straight to his own chambers, and there refreshed ourselves, 
and at about eleven o’clock Pole began to draw on his gloves, 
and announced his intention of starting forthwith to visit Mr. 
Goldsmith. . 

On one of the walls of his bedroom a series of brass-headed 
nails had been driven in to form a rack for a considerable col- 
lection of walking-sticks, hunting crops, and riding-whips. 
Pole, lounging up to this with the thumbs of his gloved hands 
stuck into his pockets, surveyed the collection with a critical 
eye. By and by he selected, and laid upon the sitting-room 
table a whip with a handle of twisted whalebone and a loaded 


THE WEAKEK VESSEL. 


145 


head of silver. As he stood passing a brush about his hat I 
took hold of this weapon and balanced it in my hand. Pole 
looked at me with a face of no expression, and without saying 
anything to him I took back the whip and put it in its original 
place. Pole, setting his hat nonchalantly on the back of his 
head, sauntered after me and took it down again. Looking 
me full in the face with that same marked absence of any 
legible expression, he lowered it firmly and slowly toward the 
table, and finally deposited it there with a bang. 1 laid hands 
upon it once more. 

There^s no knowing, I said, balancing it anew, “ what 
damage this thing might do in the hands of a strong and angry 
man. 

A second time I placed it on the rack, and for the third time 
he took it down. 

“ Now/^ he said, ‘‘if you are ready we will go and see 
Goldsmith. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

As everybody knows, it is easily possible to be mightily fond 
of a man, and yet to be angry with him. I was angrier with 
Pole than I had ever been in my life with anybody, and I 
walked by his side in hot indignation at his obstinacy. If he 
could have employed the whip he carried for Mr. Goldsmith^’c 
benefit without danger to himself it is quite likely I migh; 
have felt differently about the matter. A mere flogging would 
have been slight punishment for Goldsmith^s rascally offense, 
and I could even have taken some righteous pleasure in know- 
ing that it was to be administered. It was quite natural that 
Pole should wish to administer it; but it was no part of my 
business to stand by and allow him to get into new trouble. 
Even if he failed to regret the flogging itself, he was certain to 
regret its consequences. Perhaps at the bottom of my heart I 
was as anxious that Goldsmith should suffer as Pole himself 
was, and the very knowledge that he could not get his deserts 
without bringing more suffering to the man he had tried so 
vilely to injure helped to increase my anger. 

We marched side by side down Holborn toward Goldsmith^s 
offices in Ely Place, without a word on either side. An outer 
door was open, and a dapper little city man was in the act of 
exchanging a final word with a clerk, and half blocked up the 
door-way. Pole, who had got a yard ahead of me, set this 
personage on one side without apology and walked past him, 
I following. There were two other people in the room, and 


146 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


one of them with a pen behind his ear made a step or two for- 
ward as we entered. Pole, without paying any heed to him, 
went straight to a door marked “ Private, turned the handle, 
and entered the further room. 1 still kept at his heels, and 
was in time to see th6 start of amazement with which Gold- 
smith half arose from the chair he sat in. I had no sooner 
entered than Pole slammed to the door, turned the key, with- 
drew it, and put it in his pocket. I took advantage of the time 
afforded me by this movement to place myself between the two. 

Goldsmitli went very white, and those jetty little eyes of his 
glanced hither and thither in a rapid, unavailing search for a 
way of retreat. 

What do you mean by this?^^ he demanded. That^s a 
very curious way of entering a business office,' Bister Pole.^’ 

“ Yes,^^ said Pole, Ik's a curious way of entering a busi- 
ness office, Mr. Goldsmith. But it^s a curious sort of creature 
that keeps the office, and I have a curious little bit of business 
to transact with him. 

There was a tone of relishing badinage in Pole^s voice, but 
there was no suspicion of humor in his look, and what with 
the bantering tone and the sternness of the gaze he encoun- 
tered, Mr. Goldsmith saw such excel] ent reasons for fear that 
he turned paler still, and his hands began to tremble visibly. 

“ I donT understand you,^' he responded, nervously. 

“ I think you partly understand me,^^ Pole answered; in the 
same mocking voice. ‘‘ I think we shall understand each other 
very thoroughly before long. 

The offered prospect of a perfect understanding was evident- 
ly unpleasant to Goldsmith. He must have known perfectly 
well that there was no way of retreat for him, but the jetty 
little eyes went on seeking for one all the same. He made a 
great effort to pull himself together, and partially succeeded. 

“ Have the goodness to explaid yourself, he said. 

There was a big ruler lying on the desk, and his hand 
reached out furtively toward it. Before I had a chance to 
move Pole made a swift step forward and possessed himself of 
Goldsmith's defensive weapon. I was afraid that the prom- 
ised understanding was coming about precipitately, but Pole 
merely dropped the ruler into a waste-paper basket out of 
Goldsmith’s reach, and then seated himself. 

“ When my friend, Mr. Denham, here," Pole began, had 
the distinguished honor of crossing the channel in your com- 
pany, you told him, as 1 learn, that you were on your way to 
see a client in Paris." 

Goldsmith must have known pretty well already what was 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


147 


coniiug, and he was pale enough in all conscience already. But at 
this opening of the case against him such color as his face still 
had deserted it, and his moist and pulpy lips took a bluish tinge. 

“ You described that client as a lady. You said that she 
would one day occupy a high position, and make a noise in the 
world. I suppose that you are already aware that Mr. Den- 
ham met that client of yours four days ago?^^ 

“ How should I know that?^^ asked Goldsmith. “ And, if 
I did know it, what is there id that to make a row about 
The manner of his inquiry was utterly unsuccessful, and it 
was evident that he knew as much. 

“How,^^ Pole continued, ‘‘since you visited your client 
personally, it is only reasonable to presume that you were 
aware of her identity. ^ ’ 

“ What are you trying to talk about?” cried Goldsmith, 
with a wretched attempt to look surprised and puzzled. “ Of 
course IVe been aware of her identity. I got a letter from 
her odly yesterday. I donT know what business it is of yours, 
or what you come here and talk about her for.'^ 

As often happens, the sound of the little scoundrePs voice 
seemed to lend him courage, and I fancy he saw a glimmer of 
hope that the lines of his defense might shield him after all if 
he were only allowed to get behind them. His shaking hands 
made a search among a little heap of documents pigeon-holed 
in one of the compartments of the knee-table at which he sat. 
He produced one of the papers with a frightened, blustering 
flourish, and . slapped it on the table as if he would have said 
that that alone would clear him of any possible aspersion. 

“ There^s the letter, he said; “ it^s got nothing to do with 
you, so far as I know, but you cad look at it if you like.^^ 

Pole extended his hand as if asking for the document, and 
I, standing between him and the table, passed it to him, and, 
slightly changing my posture,'^ was able to read it with him. 
It ran thus: 

‘ ‘ Lyons, 64 Rub de la Regence. 

“ Dear Sir,— During few days my addresse will be as here 
above. I myself have found forced to quit Paris, and am my- 
self here established. Behold me absent of my documents of 
affairs, and it must that you wait my return for a fifteen of 
days. Agree, dear sir, my salutations regretful for the pain I 
give you. Marie Damal. 

“ That^s the kind of stuff she writes,^^ cried Goldsmith, as 
Pole handed the letter back to me. “ She picks the words out 
of the dictionary. 


148 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


“ This document, Mr. Goldsmith,^' said Pole, “is of no 
interest to me. It is not in my wife^s handwriting. 

At this Goldsmith gave a great start, and tried hard to feign 
amazement. 

“ I say. Bister Dedhab,*’^ he said, appealing to me, “ if he’s 
like that you ought to have him taken care of. It isn’t very 
likely to look like your wife’s handwriting. It’s qfuite enough 
that there should have been such a surprising personal likeness 
between fhem. D’ye think it’s that ” — he appealed to me 
again — “ that’s turned him queer? Has he seen the lady?’ 

“ I myself,” I answered, impatient alike of Pole’s savage 
banter and Goldsmith’s shuffling, “ I myself saw Mrs. Pole 
alive on Monday last in Paris, and dined at the same table 
with her. ” 

“Well, upod my word,” cried Mr. Goldsmith, with a very 
creditable assumption of amazement this time, though his suc- 
cess was achieved too late to be of much service to him; “ the 
pair of you are mad together. There’s a likedess, I admit . 
that there’s a likedess, but it ain’t so strong as that comes to, 
not by long chalks.” 

“Very well, Mr. Goldsmith,” said Pole, “I will tell you 
what you shall -do. You shall put yourself in my charge from 
this moment; you shall conduct me into the presence of this 
client of yours, and you shall be so watched that you shall 
hnve no opportunity of warning her of our arrival. If your 
statement is true I will pay you your own claim for wasted 
time and for expenses. ” 

This proposal made Goldsmith more uncomfortable than 
ever, but he affected to treat it as a mere piece of madness. 

“ I’m not going gallivanting off to France on a fool’s errad 
with a couple of madmen,” he declared. “ I’ve got my busi- 
dess to see to, and I’m goig to see to it. ” 

“ My good Goldsmith,” said Pole, with a cruel suavity, “ I 
will give you my check for five hundred pounds at this mo- 
ment. It will be honored on your return. 

“ What a piece of nodsense!” cried Goldsmith. What do 
I want to rob you of five hundred pounds for? There’s the 
lady’s address, 64 Roo de la Regedce, Lyods. Go and make a 
call on her.” 

“You won’t earn five hundred pounds so easily?” asked 
Pole. 

“No!” shouted Goldsmith. “I won’t be bothered any 
more with such a pack of foolery. Go and see the lady. Go 
and see her.” 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 149 

Will you earn five hundred pounds/^ Pole asked, by a 
ten minutes^ drive in a cab?^'’ 

He drew from his pocket a copy of the photographic portrait 
he had left with the agent in Paris, and held it up before Gold- 
smith. 

“ 1 ^ 0 , I won^'t,^^ snarled Goldsmith, without waiting to hear 
what mighttbe proposed to him. “ I won’t have anything to 
do with you. ” 

I think it possible,” Pole said, in the same unrelenting, 
quiet voice, “ that we may have much to do with each other 
by and by. I offer you five hundred pounds if*i you will drive 
with me to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, and declare that this 
is a portrait of the dying woman whom you identified there as 
Adelaide Pole. Will you earn the money?” 

Goldsmith returned no answer this time, but his breath grew 
thick and husky, and his glance darted hither and thither in 
a panic-stricken renewal of his search for a way of escape. 
There were curious, dry-looking little flecks of foam upon his 
lips, and his hands no longer merely trembled. They shook 
like those of a man with the palsy. Pole returned the photo- 
graph to his pocket and rose to his feet, buttoning his coat as 
he did so. He held the whip tightly clinched in his right 
hand meanwhile, and the little Jew cowered in his seat before 
him. I put myself between the two, and looked Pole in the 
face. 

This man,” I said, “ has done you too great a wrong to 
be paid for in this way. You shall not put yourself in the 
wrong if I can help it.” 

‘‘ Let me get by. Jack,” he said, in a tone of quiet common- 
place. 

“ If you will have a little reason,” I answered him, “ you 
will know what must come of this. If you lay violent hands 
upon this, pitiful little rascal here you disgrace yourself pub- 
licly. You can’t keep out of the exposure some names that 
are sacred to you. ” 

“ Let me get by,” he said. 

“ I will not let you get by,” I answered. “ I am too much 
your friend.” 

“ You don’t want to quarrel with me, Denham?” 

“ Hot I; but you shall only do this mad and useless thing 
by making me unable to prevent it. ” 

During this contention Goldsmith had risen and stolen to 
the waste-paper basket, where he secured the big ruler. Then 
he intrenched himself behind an arm-chair in a corner, and 


150 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


stood to watch the progress of events with a natural and ex- 
cusable anxiety. 

“Wait a moment/^ Pole said, with an odd gleam at me, 
half humorous, half mournful, and altogether affectionateo 
“ Perhaps you and I may arrive at a compromise, old fellow. 
I don^t want to make this visit altogether profitless, and 1 have 
a proposal to make. I am going to ask Mr. Goldsmith my 
wife^s real whereabouts. If he will give me that I will let him 
off so far as this goes, and if he will not I shaU ask your in- 
dulgence while 1 flog him till he does. 

I think there is nothing so tragic in this world that it can 
altogether exclude the element of humor. The whole of this 
business was tragic and bitter enough, but if I had had to 
change places with Goldsmith for it, I could not have saved 
myself from laughter at the sight of his countenance when I 
acceded to Pole^s proposal. 

“ Yes,^^ I said, “ I consent to that, because I know he is 
not the sort of man to take a thrashing for anybody's sake."'’ 

The little man in the corner had obviously experienced a 
beautiful relief at my interposition. But now he fell into a 
state of terror altogether abject. 

“ 1 shall take it fighting,^ he quavered from behind his arm- 
chair, and made a paralytic show with the big ruler. “ 1 aiiiT 
goig to be knocked about and not retaliate. You canT expect 
that. Bister Pole, now can you? I put it to you. You canT 
expect me not to retaliate. 

“ You pledge yourself, Denham,^' said Pole, “ not to inter- 
fere between this fellow and myself if he refuses me an an- 
swer ?^^ 


“ Certainly, I replied; “if he refuses the answer I leave 
him in your hands. 

At this response Goldsmith gave an exasperated little whine, 
and snatched the arm-chair closer. 

“ Now, Mr. Goldsmith,^’ said Pole, sternly advancing upon 
him, “ you know what I want. Will you give it to me peace- 
fully, or shall I be compelled to thrash it out of you?’^ 

“ How should I know what you want?^^ Goldsmith asked, 
watching Pole^s riding-whip with comfortlessly expectant eye. 

“ 1 want you to give me my wife^s address. 

“ Her address,^^ said the wretched Hebrew, “ is at Kedsal 
Greed. 


“ Come from behind that chair, said Pole, with a sudden 
sternness. “ Take a seat at your table. Take this pen. 
Write the address upon that envelope. 1 give you sixty sec- 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


151 


onds. If it is not done by that time you vshall take the conse- 
quences. 

He drew out his watch, and looked at it fixedly, his right 
hand swishing the ridiug-whip up and down with a threaten- 
ing and disturbing sound. 

Fifteen seconds,^’ he said, after what had seemed a much 
longer pause. Then, after a pause, which seemed even longer, 
‘‘ Thirty seconds, Goldsmith dipped the pen, and groaned. 
“ Forty seconds, said Pole. Goldsmith groaned again, and 
the pen began to travel rapidly. 

The address was written, and Pole, taking it from the table, 
read, ‘‘ Madame Damal, 28 Rue Racine, Quartier de POdeon, 
Paris. He pressed it on the blotting-pad which lay upon the 
table, and placed it in his pocket-book. 

‘‘ And now,^^ he said, “ you know better than I to what 
penalties you have made yourself liable by joining in this con- 
spiracy. Your safest way will be to put me in possession of 
the whole plot and its purpose. 

Goldsmith seemed to realize this, and in awhile he began a 
confused and intricate narrative, which being unraveled and 
plainly told, amounted to this: On a certain day, between four 
and five months earlier, Mrs. Pole had witnessed a street acci- 
dent. She had followed the woman who was injured to the 
hospital, and had there professed to identify her as Adelaide 
Pole. She had given a false name and address, and had come 
at once to Goldsmith to inform him of the move she had made, 
and to tell him its purpose. The woman was, beyond doubt, 
fatally injured, 5 aud the hospital surgeons gave no hope of her 
recovery. Mrs. Pole induced Goldsmith to assist in the pre- 
tended identification, and it was he who had found money for 
the funeral expenses. He had, since that time, supported his 
fellow-conspirator, in the belief that Pole would remarry, and 
that they would then be able to blackmail him to almost any 
extent. Mrs. Pole^s object was mainly to be revenged upon 
her husband. Goldsmith professed to have been more than 
half frightened into the transaction by her threats. 

‘‘ She’s got ad awful temper, Bister Pole,” he said. “ She’s 
an extremely violedt person. You know she is. 1 wouldn’t 
live with such a woman for the world. I can sympathize with 
you, sir, 1 can indeed.” 

“ I will not decide at present,” Pole answered, disregarding, 
not unnaturally, this novel sentiment of Mr. Goldsmith’s. 
‘‘ 1 may take criminal proceedings against both of you.” 

“ Oh,” cried Goldsmith, ‘‘ I hope that better coudsels may 
prevail with you'” 


152 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


“ Pole pursued, “ you give one sign to my wife of my 
knowledge of her whereabouts, I shall enter on those proceed- 
ings at once. You understand that 1 make no promise of re- 
fraining from them in any case. 1 only warn you that any 
communication from you to my wife will precipitate matters.-’^ 
Goldsmith was so thoroughly cowed by this time that the 
warning seemed unnecessary. 

IVe washed my hands of the whole busidess,^^ he ex- 
claimed. “ 1^11 have do bore to do with it I^d never have 
put a finger to it if you hadn^t chucked me idto the river. But 
look here now. Bister Pole. You look at it. Bister Dedhab. 
Suppose anybody chucked either one of you idto the river and 
you got a chance to land him one on a dark night three 
months after, and if you thought it was quite safe to do it, do 
you think you^d let the chance go by? I put it to you, gen- 
tlebed. I put it to you as hodorable and high-binded men. 
Pole unlocked the door, and we left this query unanswered. 
When we came upon the street, with the clerks in Mr. Gold- 
smith^s employ staring after us, as well they might, he passed 
his arm through mine, and gave a little friendly pressure. 

“ I^m very much obliged, Denham. You have saved me 
from a very grave folly. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

The days and the weeks went by, hnd winter was back 
again. I heard but little of the people with whom this his- 
tory concerns itself. 1 had bidden good-bye to Pole sorrow- 
fully and reluctantly, and had returned to my duties in Paris, 
leaving him to go back to Worborough, to tend the last days 
of an old man who had been nearly all his life a stranger, and 
to abandon the dead and buried hopes which lay behind him 
in London. It is never a useful or an admirable thing to rave 
against the unescapable. The common sense of the proverb is 
final, and the last word which is to be spoken on that question 
lies in its curt Jingle — what can^t be cured must be endured. 
Endured it has to be, after one fashion or another, and Pole 
took his share .of the inevitable, to my thinking, like a hero. 
It is a common cant of opinion, as often falsified as Justified 
by fact, that the men and women who take misfortune or Joy 
most calmly taste the bitterness of the one or the sweetness of 
the other with a fullness of suffering or pleasure unknown to 
the more expansive and explosive sort. I have always com- 
bated this Judgment, perhaps because I am myself a rather 
expansive kind of person, but I know that in Pole’s case it 


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153 


would have found as strong a confirmation as a general theory 
can gather from a single instance. He said nothing, and he 
felt the more. Words would have eased him if he could have 
brought himself to speak, but he was one of those who have 
to break before they can bend, and any revelation of his own 
feelings would have been too terrible. He wrote me now and 
again, simply and briefly, and his letters made no allusion to 
the past. They spoke of Lord Worborough^s failing health 
often er than of anything. I never knew, as a matter of actual 
fact, but I was fairly certain that Pole had told him of the plot 
his wife had laid. I dare say the discomfort of this knowledge 
weighed considerably upon the old man^s enfeebled spirits. 
These letters of Pole% with their monotonous news of a 
monotonous life, were infinitely mournful to me, and Olara'^s 
communications by and by became, for various reasons, almost 
as disquieting. One lies before me now, the foreign letter- 
paper discolored at the folds and edges, and the ink gray with 
old age. I transcribe a part of it. here, premising that it 
reached me within a day or two after my parting with Pole 
and my return to Paris. 

‘‘The whole household,’^ Clara wrote, “has been so un- 
happy for the last few days that I really have been unable to 
find the heart to write to you. Mr. Delamere himself is mis- 
erable enough, but for him I can only have a very modified 
sort of pity. It is only natural to suppose that he feels a great 
deal disappointed, but he has dealt in nothing but table elo- 
quence all his hfe, and anything which brings him a new sub- 
ject for it seems to be welcome, more or less. I am sick of 
variations -on the ‘ Vanity of Human Wishes,^ played in the 
major key, played in the minor key, played with both hands, 
played with one hand tied up behind him. The man is exas- 
perating beyond endurance, and he treats his daughter"* s nerves 
— I say nothing of mine, because they donT matter, and he has 
no great reason to consider them — as if they were an instru- 
ment constructed for no other earthly purpose than to show 
what tunes he can play upon them. I have broken out once 
about it to Mary, literally because I could not help it, and 
have pained her so much, poor thing, that I spent a whole 
night in crying, and am a horrid, red-eyed specter at this mo- 
ment, With a swollen nose. If he were anybody but Mary^s 
father I should say something to him which would shake him 
out of his hateful self-complacency for a day or two. 

“I suppose you know that Mr. Pole wrote a letter relating 
your strange discovery in Paris to Mr. Delamere. It came 


154 


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while we were at the breakfast-table, and all in the highest 
spirits. We had been out late the night before, and were late 
at breakfast, the letter coming by the second post. Mr. Dela- 
mere’s reception of it was really and seriously tragic, and if he 
had not talked my sympathies to sleep since then, and talked 
every nerve of our minds into absolute rawness, I should have 
still been sorry for him. As it is, I should have left the house 
but for Mary. The thing that weighs upon her mind most of 
all is the silly fancy that it is sinful in her to think of Mr. 
Pole now that she knows that his wife is still alive, as if it were 
her fault that that wicked and abominable plot was made, or 
as if one could turn the whole current of one^s thoughts in an 
hour. She does not say much, even to me, but she suffers 
dreadfully. She has quite lost the sense of taste, and I have 
read of that somewhere as being a sign of mental suffering, or, 
at least as going with it very often, especially in girls. 1 donT, 
know why girls especially should be made to suffer as they are, 
but they really do seem to get the worst of it. 

‘‘Mr. Pole had given her a number of beautiful presents, 
and one of the first things she did after the news wa^ to pack 
them all up together to send back to him. Mr. Delamere 
dropped the letter on the table when he had read it, and 
blurted out the truth at once, though one of the servants was 
in the room. Mary went as white as a ghost, but she said 
nothing at all, and when she went up to her own room I had 
to help her. If she had cried or given way at all I should have 
liked it better, but she was so stony about it that she really 
frightened me. She began in awhile to creep about the room 
and gather the presents into a little heap. 

“1 have to stop writing, for it has made me c.ry to think 
about it. I have been crying, off and on, for days past, and 
now anything sets me going. Then, sometimes, at the silliest 
thing in the world I giggle until I cry again for very shame at 
my own cruelty and heartlessness. But I donT want to write 
about Me, and Me gets into everything, though I do try every 
hour to be more like Mary. She is a downright angel. She 
never thinks of herself, or talks of herself at all. All her 
thought and care is to save other people from sorrow and 
trouMe, while, as for me — but there is Me again. 1 would 
tear up this sheet and begin a new one, only that would be a 
sort of hypocrisy. 1 shall leave it, so that you may see what 1 
really am. I don’t want to seem better than I am, but 1 want, 
oh, I do want, to he better. 

“ I wouldn’t tell anybody else these things for the world, 
because they seem too sacred to be talked about. But she 


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155 


kissed the bracelets and the rings, and the little watch he gave 
her — she kissed everything as she put it down on the dressing- 
table, and every time she gave a pitiful little moan as if her 
heart were breaking. And all the while she never shed one 
tear. It Was really awful to look at her,, and I had not the 
courage to speak a word. I don^t believe she knew that I was 
there. 

“You won^t think me flippant or unfeeling for writing 
these things to you, darling. They seem to be the measure of 
something I feel inside myself, and that, 1 think,, is the real 
reason why I write them. ” 

I know that at the time I read a great deal into this simple 
narrative which no other reader could have found there, and I 
know that, after this lapse of years, I still read into it the 
knowledge of the generous, tender, loyal little creature who 
penned the lines. I am not in the least ashamed to own that 
I cried in reading the lines my sweetheart had cried over in 
writing. As for poor old Pole, my heart used pretty con- 
stantly to ache about him in those days. I have given up 
forming lofty estimates of new acquaintances on insufficient 
provocation, but I am glad to have had a friend in youth 
whom I could scarcely find a flaw in. It is a good thing for a 
lad to have a human idol if he choose a strong and honest nat- 
ure for his worship, and though I am writing of myself I have 
no fear in proclaiming that this same youthful faculty for 
hero-worship is as good and gracious a sign in a young fellow 
as any I know how to look for. 

Things went on in a dull and uneventful way for some 
months, until^ as I have said already, the winter was round 
upon us in iis course once 'more. I got ^ then another letter 
from Clara, which brought strange news indeed. It was in 
searching for this that 1 lighted upon the one I have just 
transcribed. The first sentence of this new letter struck me 
like a blow. The very place from which it was dated had an 
unfamiliar look to me. 

“ Grantley Holme, Cheshire. 

“ My DEAR John, — The Delamere household has broken 
up, after the strangest and most unexpected scenes, and mam- 
ma has taken me up to the house of my uncle. Major Grant- 
ley. You have often heard me speak of him. For quite a 
month it was evident that there was something in the air. I 
was unable to guess its meaning, but I saw it and felt it con- 
stantly. First of all there was some trouble between Mr. 


156 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


Delamere and Mary. She had resolved to join a sisterhood be- 
longing to the Church of St. Mildred. She often spoke to me 
about it^ and I thought it on many grounds a, very excellent 
idea. It is one of those commoii-sense, good sisterhoods where 
the sisters devote themselves simply to nursing the sick poor, 
and generally helping the poor to be good and happy. She 
spoke about her wish to Mr. Delamere, but he made such eye- 
brows over it, and became so very wordy about the ^ Degrada- 
tion of the Social Ideal by Contact with Common Things,' 
that she relinquished her own ideal at once, as she always did, 
if that grand sultan did not immediately and entirely approve 
of it. I am sure the work would have done her good, and 
would have given her an object in life. I believe the great 
Turk's main objection was to the costume, though. I am sure 
that Mary would look perfection in it, and the white, though 
it would be a shame to hide such beautiful hair as hers, would 
put a little color into her pale complexion, by contrast. To 
hear Mr. Delamere talk about art and costume, you would 
think that at least he would have been able to understand that. 
I am not trivial, as you think I am. I am only showing you 
what a hollow mockery Mr. Delamere is, even where he is sup- 
posed to know something. 

Mary gave up the idea, and instead of going out and get- 
ting new interests in life, and gladdening the hearts of the 
poor, and doing good to hundreds with her sweet ways, she 
had to stop and mope at home under the ceaseless cataract of 
aesthetic and philosophical chatter from the Turk. Oh, I am 
glad to be away from it, and to know that Mary is away 
from it. 

“ But I have something more serious than all this to write 
about. The servants grew actually impertinent, and once 
when Mr. Delamere ordered the cook upstairs to complain of 
something in his majestic way, the woman jeered at him quite 
openly. I expected the dining-room floor to open and let her 
down into the basement, but it did nothing of the kind. Mr. 
Delamere at once gave her a month's notice, and the cook 
said: ‘ Give me my money for the last six months, and I'll go 
this instant minute. ' 

‘“You shall have a check at once,' said Mr. Delamere, but 
the cook snapped her Angers at him, and put her hands upon 
her hips. I had no idea that she could be so impolite and vul- 
gar, for I had always thought her a rather superior woman for 
lier station. 

; ‘“You'd better send it to the bank and have it cashed 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


157 


first,/ she said. ‘ I don^t want a two-mile walk through the 
mud for nothink. ^ 

Mr. Delamere ordered her from the room, and she went 
away declaring that she would have her money or her money’s 
worth before the left the house, even if she had to take it out 
of him. I suppose she meant to say that she would rob him. 

“ Mr. Jones was present at this dreadful exposure, and, 
would you believe it, he has not once been near the house since 
then. I am very glad to learn from mamma that it was 
arranged between herself and Mr. Delamere all along that my 
maintenance should be paid for. She says that the arrange- 
ment was on a very liberal scale, and as mamma is not stingy 
in such matters, I have .the satisfaction of knowing that I was 
a help rather than a burden to the household in that respect. 

Very soon after this I began to see a dreadful man about 
the house, '‘and I did riot at all understand who he could be. I 
think he lived down-stairs, but he was very often in the hall, 
looking strangely suspicious, as if he thought that 1 had some- 
thing about me that did not belong to me. , He called Mr. 
Delamere ‘ governor,’ and at first I thought he might be an 
humble member of the Moral Tone Association'. Mamma, 
however, says that he must have been a baililf — and a bailiff is 
an officer of the law, though 1 am sure he did not look like 
one. I always thought that his clothes looked as if they must 
have been drowned at one time in their history — his hat and 
boots particularly. The servants were more impertinent and 
inattentive than ever during this man’s presence in the house, 
and Mr. Delamere was so depressed that he did not even lect- 
ure. Mary was unwell at the time the man came, and did not 
see him until the morning he went away. 

‘‘ Mr. Delamere spent every hour of the day, except from 
dinner-time onward, out of the house, and spoke in the morn- 
ing very hopefully of having business in the city. He came 
home at night much downcast, and sat a long while alone in 
the dining-room after dinner. 

When Mary recovered from her cold and came down-stairs 
1 was with her, and she saw the man in the hall. She asked 
him what he wanted, and the man seemed abashed, and 
scraped his feet on the oil -cloth. Mr. Delamere came out of 
the dining-room and told him that he had better go down- 
stairs. Mary was frightened, and 1 am quite sure that she 
understood the meaning of the man’s presence. Up to this 
time I did not. But when I saw her so alarmed it unhinged 
my own nerves a little. After breakfast, which passed off 
very silently and sadly, Mr. Delamere said that he wished to 


158 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


speak to Mary alone. I went into the library and stayed there, 
reading all the morning. Mr. Delamere went out, and shortly 
afterward the postman came. The parlor-maid came into the 
library without knocking and threw a letter on to the table so 
unceremoniously that it skimmed right over the smooth leather 
and fell on the side I was sitting, at my feet. The girl bounced 
out and slammed the door behind her, making a sort of defiant 
inarticulate noise as she went. I should describe it as a snort. 
You can have no conception of the extreme discourtesy of all 
the servants at this time. 

“ Well, I picked up the letter, and in doing that it turned 
out that I was the innocent cause of all the unpleasantness 
which followed. I am quite certain now that if I had known 
what was going to happen I should have been justified in doing 
what I really did in ignorance, and I think that when you come 
to know everything you will applaud Mary’s conduct as highly 
as I do. 1 saw at once that the letter came from Mr. Pole. 
Nobody who has ever seen that pike and saber handwriting of 
his, with those dogged-looking crosses to the t’s, could ever 
mistake it for any one else’s. It was addressed to Mr. Dela- 
mere from Worborough Court, for I saw the seal and the post- 
mark. I went back to my reading and tried to think no more 
about it, though I wondered very much what it contained. 

“ When Mr. Delamere came home again only an hour later, 
he looked really wretched, and, in spite of my dislike, I could 
not help feeling sorry for him. I showed him the letter, and 
at the sight of it his fade changed in a startling way. He was 
so agitated that he could scarcely open the envelope. He 
went to the window to read the letter and came back radiant. 
I never saw so great and rapid a change in a face. He ran 
out of the room and down the hall, and in a second or two I 
heard the hall door open and close noisily behind him. 

Then came my real indiscretion. I am as glad of it as I 
should be if 1 had known everything. In fact, I am a great 
deal more glad, for I am almost certain that I should not have 
had the courage to do my duty. I ran upstairs to Mary, and 
I hugged and kissed her, and danced about her like a mad 
thipg, until she insisted on knowing what had changed me so. 
Then I told her what had happened, and you may guess my 
surprise when she took it all gravely and solemnly, and seemed 
even to be made more sad and thoughtful by it. We had 
luncheon by ourselves, or rather we sat down to it, for I don’t 
think anything was eaten, and, an hour later, Mr. Delamere 
came in, smiling all over, and as majestically condescending 
as ever. For quite a long time he had fallen from his old 


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159 


magnificent manner, and had been going about as if somebody 
had suddenly convinced him that he was an ordinary person. 
His clothes seemed to have changed. I can hardly describe to 
you the difference there was in him. He had not been in the 
house five minutes when the humble member of the Moral 
Tone Association went away by the area steps. Mamma con- 
jectures that he was dismissed, paid. Shortly afterward Mr. 
Delamere held a conclave with the servants, who were all 
beautifully admonished, and also paid. 

“ While this was going on in the library Mary and I were in 
the dining-room. She was more agitated than I had ever seen 
her during the whole of her troubles, and once or twice she 
clutched me nervously, and I could feel that she was trem- 
bling all over. 1 did not understand what was going on in the 
next room , until later, but Mary evidently understood it all. 
About five minutes after the servants had gone down she got 
up trembling, and went out of the room. I could hear her 
voice and Mr. Delamere^s, and I could tell that he was angry. 
That mellow voice of his can grow very sharp and sour, it 
seems, and he soared into as high a treble as an angry woman^s. 

‘‘I sat in the dining-room, and felt more and more uncom- 
fortable while he scolded ; and 1 grew so angry at the tone he 
took, though 1 could not hear the words, that I was actually 
fighting against a temptation to go in between them, when 
Mary came into the dining-room, and her father followed her. 
His face was red with anger, and he was puffing from having 
talked so much and so rapidly. I think that of the two Mary 
was the more angry, and she looked at her father when he 
spoke with an expression which surprised me, it was so full of 
scorn. He went striding up and down the room, stopping 
every now and again in a jerky and undignified way to tell her 
that she was ungrateful, or that he stood amazed. You know 
his phrase; he always ‘ stands amazed ^ when people differ 
from him in opinion. He has been standing amazed more or 
less ever since I have known him. But he was too angry to 
be smooth and lordly about it, as he generally is. 

‘‘At last, he said, growing more and more angry because 
she would not answer him, ‘ And you pretend to feel humiliat- 
ed? You? I accepted the humiliation for your sake. Do 
you suppose it has cost me nothing to subdue my pride and 
ask a favor at this man's hands?' ' Mary had taken up a news- 
paper which lay upon the table, and was making a pretense to 
read it, when Mr. Delamere actually snatched it from her 
hands. ‘ Listen to me,' he said; ‘ I will not endure these airs 
of disrespect.' Mary looked at him, and said quite quietly 


160 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


that there was nothing moi^ to speak of between them, and 
that they did not understand each other. Then she left the 
room, and he positively made a dash at the door to stop her. 
But I stood between them, and he stood so very much amazed 
to see me assert myself in that way that he stopped stock still 
and allowed her to go. 

“ Of course I understood everything by this time. Mr. 
Delamere had been borrowing money from Mr. Pole. Can 
you imagine anything like it under the circumstances? 

“ And now I have told you everything except the close of 
the whole business, and that, I think, I told you at the begin- 
ning of my letter. Mary sent for me and told me that she was 
compelled to leave home. She said nothing about the cause, 
and of course, knowing what I did I could not venture to ask 
her any questions. She asked me to wire to mamma at once. 
1 did so, and mamma came up to town next morning in a state 
of great astonishment, and took me away. She begged Mary 
to accompany us, but it was of no use to try to persuade her. 
She said she had plans of her own. ’ What they are I do not 
know, but she has a little fortune of her own, which belonged 
to her mother, and brings her in not more than a hundred 
pounds a year, poor thing. I am certain that out of this she 
means to pay back to Mr. Pole the money her father borrowed 
from him. Then I think she will join the sisterhood, but that 
will be a very different affair for her now, especially if Mr. 
Pole^s loan was a large one, and she has to impoverish herself 
to pay it. 

“ I have told mamma what I am going to write down now. 
She says it is a most indelicate and unlady-like proposition for 
a girl to make, and that I have no right to allude to such 
things. But if other people care to be so exquisite about their 
own delicacy, when they can do good by sacrificing a little of 
it, I donH. The proposition, my dear John, is this. You are 
to work your very best and hardest, and to get as soon as pos- 
sible into a position to make a home of your own. Then I 
suppose you will marry a certain undeserving young person 
whom you profess to be very, very much attached to; that 
young person will have her own money, and be quite rich 
when she is married, and she and you will make the darlingest 
and best girl in the world come and live with us. That doesnT 
sound quite grammatical, but I think it says what I mean. 
The grand Turk may think what he pleases, and may shower 
his cataracts of drizzle on anybody he can find. Think of 
Mary Delamere, of all girls in the world, living on bread bought 
with borrowed money, and that money belonging to Mr. Pole!^^ 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 161 

Then came certain lines which concern myself alone, and 
then, in a hastily written postscript, followed this: 

“ I was on the point of sending this to the post, when mam- 
ma came in with the news of poor old Lord Worborough^s 
death. She had found it in ‘ The Tinles,^ where there was a 
short article about his career. We had all looked at the paper 
and none of us had noticed it until then. So now Mr. Pole is 
Lord Worborough, and a millionaire, and the owner of I donT 
know how many thousands of acres. Poor young man! I am 
afraid that neither his title nor his millions will make him 
very happy. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

A DAT or two after the receipt of this intelligence came a 
black-edged letter from Pole, dated from Worborough Court, 
the envelope and letter-paper marked with a coronet. It sim- 
ply repeated the news with which everybody had now grown 
familiar and gave no hint of its writer^s future intention. 
There 1 am wrong. One clear hint it gave, in what I thought 
a very friendly and pleasing fashion. The brief ' epistle was 
signed “ Walter;"*^ and I understood from this that, though 
Pole no longer had a use for his old familiar name, he was in- 
disposed to fall upon me with the unfamiliar title, which must 
needs have stared at me rather forlornly from the paper. It 
is rather hard to become suddenly rich and distinguished, and 
to retain one^s poor and undistinguished friends. They are 
likely to be on the lookout for airs oE coldness, and will be 
ready to read signs of hauteur everyv/here. So, the wealthy 
and ennobled has, if he wants to retain their, friendship, to be 
a little warmer, a little more intimate, and friendly, than of 
old. 

After a lapse of two or three weeks my old friend came un- 
expectedly to Paris, and found me out there. I had changed 
my quarters, and had taken a pair of rooms in the Rue Neuve 
des retits Champs, in which, at the house of dead-and-gone 
M. Terre, Thackeray eat his bouillabaisse, and drank the famous 
Burgundy “ with yellow seal.'’^ I took my coffee there of a 
morning, and dined upon the streets, as the cheerless, un- 
home-like, and most aptly descriptive phrase expresses it. Pole 
— I can find no other name for him, except for the back of an 
envelope or in conversation with others, unto this day — was of 
course in mourning, and looked somehow statelier than of old, 
as if his responsibilities had laid a hand upon his shoulder. 


162 THE WEAKER VESSEL. 

He was as far from taking airs as ifc is easily conceivable that a 
man should be, but his new position marked him, to my mind, 
though in a way not easily definable. His face brightened de- 
lightfully as I jumped up to meet him, and he shook hands 
with great cordiality. The animation of his manner did not 
last, however, and when we had settled down into talk 1 saw 
that his face was care-worn, and so colorless as even to look 
unhealthy. 

When we had chatted for half an hour or so he fell into a 
little quiet, and, as I guessed, was rather gravely turning over 
some speculation in his mind. 

“I’ve been in Cheshire,” he said, looking up at me sudden- 
ly. “ There’s some land there which the poor old man wanted 
to buy for sentimental reasons. I called at Grantley Holme. 
Do you know of such a place?” 

I answered that 1 was aware of its existence, and he smiled. 
His smile had always been a pleasant thing to see, but now 
that his face had fallen to so settled an expression of melan- 
choly it was brighter than ever; a transient gleam of sunshine 
breaking through dark slouds. 

“ I had a talk,” he went on, “ with Mrs. Grantley, in the 
course of which your name was mentioned. She made a little 
pretense at first of regret for your engagement, but she soon 
threw that up, and began to show that she was quite proud of 
you. The book’s a hit. Jack, and deserves to be. I saw a 
couple of columns in ‘ The Times ’ about it, and I'm told 
there is to be an article in ‘ The Quarterly. ’ But that’s all 
apart from what I was going to say. I had a talk, not only 
with the old lady, but with the young one, about that — ” (He 
threw a letter on the table. ) “ Read it. ” 

I took the letter, a business-looking document, and found 
that it was addressed to Lord Worborough by a firm of Lon- 
don solicitors. They desired to know the amount in which Mr. 
Delamere stood indebted to his lordship, and stated that they 
were instructed to pay it without delay. 

“ 1 shouldn’t show you this,” he went on, “ if I had not had 
that talk with Miss Grantley. She was in the house when Miss 
Delamere left it, and she confessed to me that she had told 
you the whole history.” 

I found Clara’s letter, and read it aloud to him, with certain 
omissions, and he listened calmly and attentively. 

“ Well, now,” he said, “ since you know all this, I suppose 
you can guess pretty clearly at whose instigation that letter 
was written? 


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THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


I answered that it was evidently written at the instigation of 
Miss Delamere. 

He tried to speak of her as he would have spoken of anybody 
who was indifferent to him, and was so far successful that a 
stranger would have noticed nothing. 

“ les/^ he said, “it was written at the instigation of Miss 
Delamere. 1 felt myself justified in making inquiries, and I 
have learned that she has three thousand in the three per cents. 
She and her trustee are empowered to use this if they act 
jointly. The trustee is Eobert Foljambe, a cousin of her 
mother^s. He has three or four times refused, even at Miss 
Delamere's urging, to put this money under her father's con- 
trol. 1 have been to see him since I received this letter. 1 
was with him, in fact, the day before yesterday. He wants to 
refund what Delamere borrowed, and 1 told him that for the 
time being, until I could take advice about it, I should decline 
to give him any particulars." 

“ How much," 1 asked, “ did Delamere borrow? Don't an- 
swer me unless you meant to tell me." 

“1 meant to tell you," Pole answered, “because the 
amount happens to be the vital part of the whole affair. He 
borrowed just three thousand pounds. If it had not been for 
Lord Worborough’s death it would have crippled me to lend 
it. I did not, and 1 could not, count on that, but 1 got the 
monej^ and 1 let him have it." 

“And what did you think of him?" I asked. 

■ “ Oh," he replied, “ it would take a good deal to change 
my opinion of Mr. Delamere. Foljambe," he added, “is as 
honorable a man as you can find, but he’s as poor as a rat, and 
has seven children, all girls. If he could, I believe he would 
pay the money for Miss Delamere’s sake, but that’s out of the 

? uestion. Now, I want your advice in the matter. What am 
to do?" 

I dare say there are people to whom this may appear a very 
simple problem, but I found it one of the utmost difficulty. It 
seemed, on the one hand, that it would be an altogether shame- 
ful and brutal thing on the part of a millionaire, under any 
pressure in the world, to take the last penny of the woman he 
loved. Put in that way, the thing' looked preposterous and 
incredible. It was unthinkable, impossible. It was out of 
the question. Then, on the other hand, Mary Delamere was 
smarting under as bitter a humiliation as a woman of high 
spirit could be called upon to endure. To her, I could see 
plainly, it would be ten times more terrible to face Pole’s re- 
fusal of the money than to endure the poverty its payment 


1G4 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


would entail upon her. She would carry the sting of that 
humiliation always, unless her offer were accepted. It looked 
impossible that a high-minded man should insult her.by its re- 
fusal. The old Greeks, who were fond of foolish puzzles, had 
one which posed this question! When the irresistible meets the 
impregnable, what happens? It is easy enough to respond 
that the irresistible ceases to be irresistible when it meets the 
impregnable, and that the impregnable ceases to be the im- 
pregnable when assaulted by the irresistible. But here, for 
once in my lifers history, I seemed to be set in sight of the two, 
and was likely, I began to think, to have a bad time of it be- 
tween them. How should I counsel Pole to insult the one 
creature he held most dear in the world? How could I coun- 
sel him to reduce her to poverty? 

1 got an inspiration on a sudden, and thought I saw a way 
of evading the difficulty. 

Clearly, I said,/‘ you canT take the money, and clearly, 
you have actually got to take it.’’^ 

“ That is a brutal exhibition of the actual facts, said Pole. 
‘‘ I have seen those two contradictory positives staring me in 
the face ever since I got this letter. 

Very well,^'’ I said; “ you must do neither, and do both. 
Delamere is not a very lofty person, and he will be glad to ex- 
change his daughter’s contempt for his own. As I judge him, 
he won’t greatly mind despising himself, and will very strong- 
ly object to any other living creature taking the same line.” 

“ My judgment goes with yoiirs,” Pole answered. “ What 
do you propose to do?” 

“ Imprwiis, you don’t want the money? It can make no 
difference in the world to you to have or not to have it?” 

‘‘ No difference in the world.” 

“ Well,” I continued, feeling vicariously ashamed for the 
specious piece of meanness I was plotting for another man’s 
performance, Delamere can not in all probability have spent 
the whole of the sum he borrowed. Give him your check for 
a thousand pounds. Make him draw a check payable to you 
for the same amount against it. Let him forward that to 
Miss Delamere with instructions to send it on to you through 
her lawyers. Then, in three months’ time, send him five hun- 
dred to be employed in the same way, and so on until the whole 
debt is paid. It’s a fraud, but it’s a pious fraud, and, so far 
as I see, it’s the only way out of the difficulty. You can com- 
plete your share of it by writing to the lawyers and saying that 
the debt is in rapid process of repayment, and can leave Del a- 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. ' IfJo 

mere to such gentlemanly, dignified, and high-spirited flourishes 
as his nature craves. 

“ Denham cried Pole, ‘‘ you are a rogue of genius. What 
might you have done if you had devoted that splendid intelli- 
gence for fraud to the purpose for which it was bestowed upon 
you?^^ He had brightened at my plan, but his face fell sud- 
denly. 

“ What is it?’^ I asked him. 

‘‘You have forgotten one thing, he returned. “ The good 
man earns no money. He toils not, neither does he spin. If 
we. excite Miss Delamere^s suspicions the fraud is useless. 

“ He must be made to spin,’^ I answered. “ He is a great 
draw as a lecturer. Let -him lecture to his souPs content. 
He will flourish about that too, and perhaps be able to restore 
Miss Delamere^s good opinion of him — though that would be a 
fraud with a vengeance. 

“ She would be the happier for it,^^ Pole said, with a reflect- 
ive melancholy in his voice. “ She would be the happier for 
it. She has need of somebody to believe in. I think I can 
manage Delame re, he continued. “Of course hefll pretend 
that he’s going to pay me afterward, and if he likes to salve 
his conscience that way I can make no objection. Of course it 
wasn’t very lofty in him to want to borrow the money from 
me, and I wish he could have kept it from Miss Delamere’s 
knowledge. We must do our best to rehabilitate him in her 
eyes.” 

In this manner our plan was laid, and though I have had 
more than a score of years in which to reflect upon it, I can 
not say that 1 have even yet arrived at any definite conclusions 
about its moral aspect so far as we two were concerned. Pole, 
who was staying at Meurice’s Hotel, asked me to go there and 
dine with him, and since it was a Saturday, and therefore a 
journalistic holiday, I consented. After dinner we concocted 
a letter to Delamere, setting the facts before him with a frank- 
ness which I fancied he was likely to find distasteful. This 
done, Pole wrote a short letter to the lawyers, saying simply 
that the amount of Mr. Delamere’s indebtedness to him was 
three thousand pounds, adding that he thoroughly appreciated 
the motives which dictated the inquiry^ and that he sincerely 
hoped that no action whatever would result from his response 
to it. The letter to Delamere inclosed a check for a thousand 
pounds. 

Thackeray has accustomed everybody with the slightest turn 
for self-examination to an irritating, tolerably constant inquiry 
as to whether he is, or is not, a snob. Was I ever so little of 


166 


THE WEAKEE VESSEL. 


a snob, I wonder, when I caught myself admiring the pike-and- 
saber signature and the bluntly written “One thousand 
pounds,'' and did 1, or did I not, feel a British flush of pride 
in the reflection that my closest friend was a peer of the realm 
and a millionaire? I know I can honestly say that 1 valued 
Pole himself neither less nor more because of these qualifica- 
tions. But if I had a mind to be honest 1 might plead guilty 
to a little better appreciation of myself because of them. I 
can blush now to remember what I thought about what the 
waiters might think about me, when I dined in such intimacy 
of companionship with the wealthy Lord Worborough. But I 
was hardly five-and-twenty, and 1 can find excuses for myself. 
After dinner we drew up our chairs beside the log fire and had 
a long and unrestrained talk. There was a hard black frost 
upon the ground without, and a high wind was blowing, so 
that there was comfort in the very sputtering of the wood, and 
the warm glow was grateful. I asked what news there was of 
his wife, and he told me simply that he had taken matters into 
his own hands. He had writtten to her at the address Gold- 
smith had given, telling her that her plot had been discovered, 
and that hereafter, in order to keep her within his knowledge, 
he should send her allowance in a weekly check. He had 
placed no control upon her movements, but had left her to 
choose what habitat she pleased. As for Goldsmith, Pole had 
left that worthy to digest his own reflections, and make what 
he could of his losses. The little Jew had maintained his fel- 
low-conspirator from the time of her supposed death until the 
date of her discovery, and was probably some hundred and 
fifty pounds out of pocket as the result of his nefarious scheme. 

“ I don't think it likely," said Pole, “ that he will proceed 
either against my wife or me for the recovery of the money." 
He added that he had received no. word of answer, but that 
the checks had been presented and bore his wife's signature. 
“ And now. Jack," he went on, “ 1 have something to say that 
concerns you personally. Poor old Worborough took a pro- 
digious liking to you, and he and I talked about you a good 
deal in the last month or two of his life-time. He stood very 
high with his party, and had considerable influence. He pro- 
posed to me that he should use it in your behalf, and before he 
died he had got things in train. In four months' time an ap- 
pointment will be open for your acceptance. If you don't 
care to take it you can have a second choice a month later. 
Number one is a sinecure, or thereabout. It will bring you in 
fifteen hundred pounds a year, confine you to London while 
Parliament is sitting, bring you a pension after sixteen years 


THE WEAKER VESSEt. 


167 


of dolce far niente, and it opens up no avenue to distinction. 
Kumber two takes half the salary and say, roughly, a thou- 
sand times the labor. It opens tl^e way to almost any am- 
bition. There's no political difference to hold you back, and 
you can have which you please.'^ 

1 thanked him warmly, and told him, what I knew very 
well, that though he charged the old lord with these benevo- 
lent intentions toward myself, it was he who had inspired them. 

“ Well," he said, with one of his rare, bright smiles, “ I 
didn't let the fire go out for want of fuel. Which do you go 
for, the fifteen hundred with nothing to do, or the hard work 
and the eight hundred? Don't be in a hurry to play Quixote, 
Jack. If you were a fiery young politician eager for a chance 
you might be tempted by the smaller salary and the wider field 
of ambition. If you choose that, you will have little time for 
literary labors, and by and by, in all probability, you'll get 
rapt away from them altogether. In the other case you have 
a chance that falls to few men of following your own bent and 
doing your own work in the world." 

That was a very delightful prospect, and the bait looked 
tempting, but I recalled certain burning prose passages of my 
own which, to my infinite pride and delight, had found their 
way into the columns of the “ Reamleigh Weekly Banner" 
some half dozen years before. In these early effusions I had 
been most savagely satirical and denunciatory about the wicked 
and contemptible idlers who fattened on the life-blood of the 
starving poor. I had been amazingly in earnest. One gets 
amazingly in earnest at the age of eighteen or nineteen, and 
wonders later in life at the pother one made in those enthusi- 
astic days, and the sound and fury. I told Pole, with an in- 
genuous blush, of the attitude I had taken with regard to this 
question. 

“ Well, my boy," he answered, your past deeds may rise 
against you, and some future demagogue in his first pair of 
trousers may scathe you by a reproduction of your own fervor 
in the columns of that same journal. It has a world- wide 
circulation, I' believe." 

I answered that it might be world-wide for all I knew, but 
that the circulation in my day was limited to some two hun- 
dred copies. 

“In that case," Pole responded, “the inhabitants of the 
whole planet may not yet be infected with these radical notions. 
Slip into the berth, Denham, and be snug there before the 
storm evoked by your own utterances shall burst upon your 
head." 


168 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


I wanted time and chance to think. 1 had no taste or lik- 
ing for active politics, and I had a conscientious objection to 
the acceptance of public ihoney without an equivalent being 
given for it. I was conscious that this objection had lost 
greatly in force within the last half hour. I began to feel that 
if another man had accepted that tempting sinecure 1 should 
have been very mild in my condemnation of him. I even be- 
gan to think that if the imaginary other man had great ideas 
boiling in his head which for want of time and ease would be 
lost to the world, he would be, after a fashion, criminal in re- 
fusing the position. The acceptance of a sinecure grew in- 
finitely less objectionable in aspect than it had ever seemed be- 
fore. 

“ I can see where your thoughts are traveling, said Pole, 
evincing less penetration than he commonly displayed. ‘ ‘ DonT 
be foolish, Denham. Take the chance that comes to you, and 
accept things as they are. The world is very much out of 
joint, I dare say, but the cursed spite, as Hamlet calls it, only 
comes in when the man who wasnT made for any such advent- 
ure thinks that he was born to set it right. There the post 
stands, waiting to be filled. Somebody will have it, as like as 
not a fellow infinitely less worthy than yourself. Nobody will 
get it as the reward of private merit or public virtue; and, in 
plain English, if my advice has any weight with you, youTe 
an ass if you throw it over. Take it, and marry your sweet- 
heart, and settle down and write your books in comfort. You 
think you’d be doing more of your duty if you took the worse 
berth of the two? vain dog! What will your political efforts 
do for the country? Some fellow made for the rough-and- 
tumble of politics will take it and make it a stepping-stone to 
fortune, and have a baronetcy. You’re not cut out for that 
kind of life. Come, the berth’s going, going, going — ” 

“ Gone!” I said. 

If I had any conscientious qualms about that sinecure after 
this acceptance of it, I smothered them as remorselessly as the 
wicked Kichard smothered the tender little innocents in the 
Tower. I dare say other men have had similar scruples on 
like occasions, and have prescribed just the same murderous 
remedy for their own disquiet. ^ There are- men in the world 
who would have risen in hot indignation against such a pro- 
posal as I accepted. I have heard them say so. I have a sort 
of memory that I said something to that effect myself in the 
columns of the “ Keamleigh Weekly Banner. ” I am not the 
hero of this narrative, and even if my acceptance of the posi- 
tion offered to me were unheroic, I came down on to the plain. 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


169 


level highway of life into excellent company, and found quite 
a crowd of good fellows there before me. 


CHAPTER XXYL 

1 LOST but little time in letting my English chief know of 
the surprising good-fortune which, by Pole^s kindness, had 
overtaken me, and 1 soon found myself liberated from my post 
in Paris. Macllray, I ani inclined to think, regarded me with 
a kind' of awe from the moment at which 1 announced to him 
the news of my social advancement. When one day Lord Wor- 
boroLigh’s black-edged visiting-card found its way to those 
lofty offices in the Rue de la Paix, the good Scot retired to a 
little apartment of his own and there furbished himself with 
hair-brushes and clothes-brush, and then, returning, possessed 
himself of a pair of gloves. He had evidently an idea of put- 
ting them on in order to receive a peer of his native realm in 
befitting state, but Pole entering before he could put this pur- 
pose into execution, he stowed them away in his coat-tail 
pockets, and offered his congratulations on the nobleman^s 
accession to wealth and title with an almost hysteric alacrity 
and effusion. Awaking to the fact that Pole had not come 
upstairs on horseback^ was accompanied by no herald bearing 
a coat of arms; and was, in fact, in no way changed from the 
rather sad-mannered, simple gentleman he knew already, he 
grew more sober in demeanor. 

I had a kyind of fear upon me/^ he told me afterward, 
“ that the lad would be transmogrified out of knowledge, and 
he^s not the least bit altered. Ah"m thenkin^ that ef any 
magical pooer laid a hold upon me and made a millionaire and 
loard o^ me, Pd just be a spectacle for go^s and men. ITl 
be thankful to them to leave me in my nati^ obscurity. Pm 
best where I am. 

He showed a tendency to alter his demeanor toward myself, 
and falling shortly after this speech into one of his accustomed 
reveries, and emerging from it with his customary “ Ay, ay!^^ 
he checked himself at the habitual “ lad,"" and substituted for 
it ‘‘ Mr. Denham."" 1 laughed at first, but I soon found out 
that Macllray meant no more by this than to intimate that if 
I were not prepared under my own changed conditions to con- 
tinue on the old familiar terms he was prepared to abandon 
them. 1 do not suppose for a moment that he formulated 
this to himself, but he felt it all the same and acted upon it, 
until his Scottish sense of independence was assitaged by the 


170 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


certainty that no overwhelming sense of my own grandeur had 
run away with me. 

When 1 finally bade good-bye to my Paris duties he was ex- 
tremely warm and friendly. 

“ Ye^re a very fine, unaffected pair o’ lads, the both o’ ye,” 
he said. “ I’m not looking forward to a d walling in the tents 
of prences for my own part, nor to set down with the great 
ones o' the airth. I’d be clean spoiled if I had a notion of it, 
I know very well that I would. And you two, that are 
younger in the warld’s way's than I am, are just as natural as 
death, though ye stand there with all your blushing honors 
thick upon ye.” 

A.S a matter of fact 1 had no mean inward idea of the worldly 
importance which the possession of that wicked sinecure would 
confer upon me, and if I did not crow about it, it was only be- 
cause 1 was restrained by the fact that the post was gained by 
no merit of my own. 

I say I had lost no time in conveying information to my 
chief, but there was one person to whom I wrote even earlier. 
I had no sooner left Pole on that memorable, unforgettable 
evening than I fell to work to construct the terms of a letter 
to Mrs. Grantley. I rehearsed the letter all the way home, 
and wrote it immediately on reaching my chambers. Before I 
could get away from Paris, or my successor was appointed, I 
received a letter of congratulation from mamma, who with- 
drew all objection to my suit, and assured me that she had 
never, entertained any but such as were prompted by the con- 
sideration of my youth and the limited character of my worldly 
prospects. She exhorted me to new efforts in my new calling, 
and seemed to think that I had undertaken what might have 
been an eighth labor for Hercules. 

My first business was to see the chief of my department, to 
whom I carried a letter of introduction from Pole. He was a 
genial old gentleman with a courtesy title, and he had been a 
life-long friend of the late Lord AV orborough. He was very 
kind in his manner, and he talked about my duties, which 
were to be within reach of two subordinate personages between 
the hours of eleven ajid three for five days in the week and six 
months of the year. The duties of these subordinates were to 
be within reach of their subordinates from ten till four. My 
chief’s duty was, in an easy-minded and unsettled way, to be in 
reach of me. 1 praise the bridge that carried me over. It 
was a pleasant office, and, mockery apart, there was just 
enough work to do in it to prevent one from feeling like an 
actual impostor. I learned this afterward, but for the mo- 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


171 


ment my one desire was to get down to Grantley Holme and 
claim Clara. We corresponded every day. We wrote reams 
of letters, but fhe consolations of the post are but a poor sub- 
stitute for the actual presence of your sweetheart, and 1 made 
all possible haste to join her. 

I went down to Cheshire, and came back in a day or two, 
accompanied by Mrs. Grantley and the major, a soldierly and 
gallant gentleman, and Clara. The three took up their abode 
at a hotel, and I lived in Pole’s chambers. We spent days in 
house-hunting, and having found a perfect little jewel of an 
establishment, we spent weeks, and very happy weeks they 
were, in the search and purchase of furniture. Both Clara 
and I were resolved not to give ourselves into the hands of the 
demon upholsterer, and, with due regard to the sentiments of 
mamma, who had- excellent taste, we pleased ourselves in the 
decoration nf our home. 

It had been decided that our marriage should take place 
when the house was ready. There were one or two good rea- 
sons for this dispatch, and there was nothing whatever to be 
urged against it. Naturally enough, I was eager for it, and I 
urged with some tact, as I flattered myself, that my duties 
would begin in three months’ time, and I should have no 
chance of a honey-moon for at least six months further. Why 
not utilize the time now in hand? 

“You give me credit for no motherly desire to retain my 
daughter,” said Mrs. Grantley. . 

I said nothing of the fact that my charming future mother- 
in-law had already managed to live without her daughter for 
a full year and a half, but Clara supplied the omission. The 
conflicts of mother and daughter amused me often, but I had 
sense enough to avoid participation in them, and they always 
said the keenest and plainest things to each other, with an 
amiable good-humor and mutual understanding. 

The major had hired a carriage, and one day we all drove 
eastward to the Strand. At the top of one of the riverward 
running streets the carriage halted. 

“ We will call for you in half an hour,” said Mrs. Grantley; 
and Clara, tapping my hand with a gloved forefinger, motioi:^d 
to me to alight. I rose to obey, but I suppose I looked in- 
quiry, for Mrs. Grantley demanded to know if I had not been 
told where I was wanted to go. 

“Not yet,” said Clara, and, the word being given to the 
coachman, the carriage rolled away. Clara passed a hand 
through my arm, and led me down the street toward the 
river. 


173 


THE WEAKEE VESSEL. 


We are going to see Mary Delamere/’ she said. I have 
been here three times already. Your duty, if you please, is to 
act like a good fiance, and second all my proposals. 

I promised that I would do so, not being greatly in the dark 
as to what they were likely to be. The street was not inviting 
to look at. It wore an air of middle-class respectability grown 
sordid, and no house-painter seemed to have visited it for half 
a generation. But, behold, on a sudden there gleamed upon 
us a house of mellow newness, with the neatest and whitest of 
curtains and blinds, and door-knob and knocker of burnished 
brass, so refulgent with constant polish that they might have 
been taken for gold. The snowy doorsteps cried aloud with a 
voice of reproach to the whole neighborhood. I rapped, with 
the highly polished little brass knocker, at Clara’s bidding, 
and ill a minute, with a smiling, rosy-cheeked alacrity, a girl 
of eighteen or thereabouts,, in the costume of a religieuse, 
opened the door. She greeted Clara pleasantly, as if they 
were already known to each other, but regarded me somewhat 
shyly and doubtfully, as if the intrusion of the male element 
were a thing unheard of in her experience of the place, and not 
to be too kindly looked upon as an experiment. Clara asked 
for Sister Constance, and the small nun-like personage led us 
into a fresh-looking, sparely furnished apartment of infinite 
order and cleanliness. 

“Who is Sister Constance?’’ 1 asked, when we were left 
alone Jiere for awhile. 

“Sister Constance,” Clara answered, “is Mary Constance 
Delamere. ” 

I asked, in some consternation, if she had taken the veil, 
but a smiling shake of the head was the only answer I re- 
ceived, for at that moment a large and motherly woman in 
conventual garb sailed into the room like a breeze. She also 
was known to Clara, and exchanged friendly greetings with 
her. 

“ Sister Constance,” she said, “ will be here in a moment 
or two.” 

She invited us to be seated, and said something about the 
weather, so brightly and breezily that the air of the room 
seemed the fresher for it. Mary Delamere came in almost 
directly, and submitted to be hugged and kissed by Clara, who 
received her with a voluble and tender vehemence, while the 
elder lady looked on smiling. 1 had had a sort of general 
notion that all human emotions, except for a kind of tranquil, 
cold pity for human troubles in general, were left out-of-doors; 
but the elderly lady smiled as if she were well pleased, and 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


173 


Sister Constance endured and returned the caresses lavished 
upon her in precisely her old manner. If it is not profane to 
say it, the garb of this harmless and helpful society became 
her very much indeed. Her pale looks were warmed a little 
by their neighborhood with the contrasting black and white. 
She greeted me in a friendly fashion, and we all four sat down 
to talk together. 

The sister superior, said Clara, glibly, indicating the 
elderly lady by a little bow, “ knows already why we are here, 
and will have no objection to the proposal I am going to 
make. Mr. Denham is also aware of it, and has adopted it 
with the enthusiasm which might have been expected from 
him. \Ye shall be at home and settled down in eight weeks’ 
time.” She blushed at this, delightfully to my thinking, and 
Sister Constance and the sister superior smiled like an average 
brace of ladies well pleased, and looked no more like their 
costume than a country June like a London November. 
“ You can carry on your good work,” Clara continued, 
‘^without let or hinderance. Mr. Denham knows all about 
the London poor. He is quite an authority now about their 
condition, and he can tell you that there are crowds of them 
in our neighborhood, and that there is hardly anybody to look 
after them. You will be able to work among them, and so 
far as my own duties will allow me ” — she was more matronly 
here than her own mother — “ I shall be charmed to take a 
part in your work. Besides that, John will be engaged in his 
new duties. Mr. Denham,” she explained to the sister su- 
perior, “ has accepted an appointment under government — 
from eleven to three. That is to say, that from half past ten 
to half past three I shall be alone, and I want to know what I 
am to do with all those dreary hours if you won’t come and 
help me to pass them profitably. There are some people,” she 
addressed the superior once more, “ who might perhaps tell 
you that I am frivolous. I shall always deny that. But, even 
if it were true, it would only be an additional argument why 
Mary should come to me. ” 

“We think your offer very generous and affectionate,” said 
the superior, in her own crisp yet motherly fashion; “ and for 
my part I like you very much for it, my dear. It remains for 
Sister Constance herself to decide.” 

“ Isha’n’t, 1 can’t, and I won’t be happy without her,” said 
Clara. “ If Mr. Denham will speak his mind he will say pre- 
cisely what I do. ” 

I spoke my mind warmly, and said with truth that I should 
be sincerely grateful to Miss Delamere if she would do what 


174 


THE WEAKEE VESSEL. 


Clara asked her. The “ Sister Constance stuck somehow 
on my tongue, and I could not rid myself of a slight but 
irreverent impatience of it. The elderly lady looked to\^’ard 
her, awaiting her decision. 

“You know, dear,'’^ Mary began, “ that if I refuse it is not 
because— 

“ But you shall not refuse,^' cried Clara, with a face and 
voice of dismay. “ I shall think it an absolute cruelty if you 
refuse.^' 

“ You see, dear,^^ Mary answered, gently, you must see, 
that I can not consent to become a burden upon you — 

“ A burden upon me/’ Clara answered, spreading her hands 
abroad and turning on the superior with a look of resignation 
to unmeasured wrong. “ Did you ever hear anything like 
that?” the gesture said. “ I actually lived,” she continued, 
with excellent hypocrisy, “ in Miss Delamere’s house for the 

f reater part of two years, and now she refuses to live in mine. 

shall think it cruel if you dream of refusing me,” she added, 
turning anew to Mary, “ I. shall think it unfriendly. I shall 
never believe again that you care for me at all. It’s of no 
use,” she was back at the superior again, “ to talk to Sister 
Constance of her own happiness or her own welfare. Those 
are quite absurd considerations to her mind. And she has 
been housekeeping all her life and I have had no experience. 
There are a thousand things I want to learn, and she will 
leave me to kill my husband with rheumatic fever through 
unaired linen, or poison him with an indigestion.” There 
was a cold tragedy in this announcement which might have 
touched the most obdurate heart. Mary was evidently anxious 
to speak, and had already made two or three movements in 
that direction; but Clara would not permit her to be heard, 
“lam willing,” she went on, “ to leave it all in the hands of 
the sister superior. You are not so undisciplined and so 
hardened in your opinions that you will refuse to follow her 
advice. I am sure that she will support my petition. ” 

The artful young person, as it afterward appeared, had ar- 
ranged with the sister superior beforehand. That motherly, 
good creature smiled, and answered that, really, she thought 
that Sister Constance could hardly be better employed. The 
matter was, of course, entirely for her own consideration. 
But — The pause and the gesture were alike significant. 

“ If I could be useful to you,” Mary began — 

“Useful!” cried Clara. “You’ll be invaluable. Oh, 
thank you, darling.” She ran at her with impetuous haste, 
and laid hold of both her hands. “ i never thought you could 


THE WEAKEK VESSEL. 


175 


refuse, but you don't know what a load you have lifted from 
my mind." 

“ But," began Mary, smiling, “ I haven't promised." 

“ There!" cried Clara, piteously. “ It's all to begin over 
again. You have promised — " with a sudden new vivacity. 
“ You have! You have!" Then turning brokenly to me: 
“ Now, John, has she not promised?" 

Since the sister superior had expressed her opinion upon the 
matter, I had hardly regarded the situation as being doubtful. 
She interposed again at this point, and carried the day for the 
petitioners. 

“ Suppose," she said, “ that you give your friend the benefit 
of your experience for half a year. You need not lay aside the 
work you have taken to heart. You will be doing a good ac- 
tion I am sure. " 

Clara poured out thanks upon her ally, and new entreaties 
upon Mary. I Joined my own, and Just as the major's car- 
riage rumbled over the cobbled pavement to the door the treaty 
was concluded. 

Certain telegraphic signs passed between Clara and her 
mother before the carriage had borne us back to the Strand, 
and the elder lady was evidently almost as much gratified as 
the younger. She had her daughter's interests at heart, but 
she was quite willing that so excellent a mistress as Mary 
Delamere should save her the trouble of initiating Clara into 
the details of housekeeping. For my part, I was in my own 
way as satisfied as either. If I had had my world to choose 
from, and to search for a friend and companion to my wife 
that was to be, I should have chosen Mary Delamere. To 
have absolutely what you would have chosen is a fortunate 
thing, and I reckoned myself and Clara very happy in this 
matter. 

In due course the bans being already put up, the guests 
were invited, and we two young people got married, and went 
away for a six weeks' sojourn in Elysium. We spent our 
moon and a half of honey in the Riviera, and then came back 
to settle down in smoky London with Mary Delamere as my 
wife's companion. 


CHAPTER XXVIL 

That section of the great world which lived by faith in old 
china was deeply stirred by the news that the eminent art 
critic's collection was about to be offered for sale by public 
auction. Jones, who came now and again to see us in our new 


176 


THE WEAKEK VESSEL. 


home, was actually pathetic about the threatened dissipation 
of an assortment which had cost so much skill and patience 
and money in the gathering. Not only the crockery ware, 
but the bronzes, the Japanse lacquers, the Eastern ivories, the 
rare engravings, rare editions, and rare coins, were all going. 
The chief passion of this tragedy to Joneses mind was that 
certain pictures of the Italian school, which had never been 
brought together before, and which illustrated a certain de- 
' velopment and phase of art, would have, in all probability, to 
be sold separately, and might be scattered the wide world 
over. He wrote letters to the daily papers about this, and 
was as sad and angry over the laxity of the government in not 
securing this treasure for the nation as Jeremiah was in his 
day concerning the backslidings of his people. I have no 
doubt that, to people learned in such matters, these works 
possessed a high value of their own; but to the uninitiated, 
who cared for art- work chiefly because of its beauty, they 
could hardly have been leSs pleasing than they were. It is 
always dangerous to attack the enthusiastic specialist, and I 
was careful to disguise my own ignorance and to leave Jones 
alone. 

Delamere had expended quite a considerable fortune in 
amassing his collection, and had, in fact, been impoverished 
by it. He had for years past paid to the insurance companies 
a larger annual sum than it would have cost him to live in 
bourgeois comfort and to indulge in those commoner signs of 
wealth which he despised. The house in Cromwell Terrace 
was dismantled, and bronzes, books, coins, ivories, pictures, 
and china were all ranged, catalogued, and exposed to view in 
the rooms of a great West End auctioneer famous for his 
knowledge of such things and his conduct of their sale. Such 
part of fashion as was at that season of the year to be found in 
town thronged the rooms daily, and valetudinarian collectors 
were borne swiftly home from , remote health resorts to be 
present at the sale. Many of the objects were beautiful even 
to the eye of Ignorance; and to the learned there was nothing 
in the whole extensive collection which had not some high 
special value, beauty, or interest of its own. 

Clara and I went to see the collection. The rooms were 
almost empty when we got there, for the first flush of public 
interest was over; but at the far end of the long chamber in 
which the principal treasures were exposed to view I saw and 
recognized the stately figure of Mr. Delamere. I could not 
help glancing at him from time to time as he wandered hither 
and thither among his belongings, as if taking mute and 


THE WEAKER VESSEL, 


177 


mournful farewell. He saw us afc length and came over to us, 
looking extremely dignified and stately, as a martyr might if 
he were let out on bail the night before an auto-da-fe. 

“ You know my little collection already, Denham, he said, 
with a gentle, noble sadness. “ There were many larger, even 
among the^ private treasures of the world, but not many so 
complete within its own limited lines. A life-long interest in 
these things, a life-long study, enabled me to acquire many 
objects of interest and value which wealthier collectors were 
compelled to pass for want of money. This intaglio, for in- 
stance, cost me a mere thirty pounds. It may realize ten 
times that sum to-morrow. ” 

He told me all about the object to which he drew my atten- 
tion, gave me a little sketch of its history, of the life of the 
artist who brought it into being, and of the special artistic 
purpose it served in relation to the rest. On a point like this 
he always knew how to be charming. For, whatever else he 
pretended, I never knew anybody bold enough to charge him 
with inaccuracy or ignorance about the precious objects in his 
possession. He had spent his life in learning all that was to 
be known of them, and all the enthusiasm and feeling of 
which he was capable were expended on them. 

“ I would fain have kept these things, he told me, looking 
about him with his air of mournful dignity. It is 'a wrench 
to part with them, but I can afford to keep them no longer. 
It is too much to hope that all of them will fall into good 
hands. The newly rich begin to hanker after these posses- 
sions, and many of them are so sadly ignorant that one fears, 
one f ears. 

I waited for him to make some inquiry about Mary, and did 
not for one moment imagine that he knew nothing of her 
present whereabouts. I made no allusion to her, and he made 
none. He had been too much occupied, as I found out after- 
ward, in the classification of his belongings, and too much 
saddened at the thought of parting from them, to find time 
for mere domestic considerations. Clara, after lingering for a 
little time, had continued her round of observation alone. She 
had been very cool in her manner toward him, but Mr. Dela- 
mere did not seem to have noticed that. His heart was in the 
coffin there with his crocks and other bric-d-brac, and he must 
needs wait until it came back to him. 

On the third day of the sale we went again, and bought two 
or three of the least expensive trifles, partly to have some 
record of the home in which Clara had lived so long, and part- 
ly because they were the things that had pleased her most. ■ 


178 


THE WEAKEE VESSEL. 


Delamere himself was there, and was buying in some remnant 
of his own, for the sale had achieved an unexpected and sur- 
prising success, and it was a matter of common rumor that 
the proceeds had at least doubled the estimate of the auction- 
eer. Delamere was well to do again. He had impoverished 
himself by his purchases and by the prodigious insurance 
money he was compelled to pay, and now it turned out that 
he could hardly have made a more fortunate investment of his 
money. For years after people learned in such matters quoted 
the prices realized at the sale of the Delamere collection. 
Even now one hears casual mention made of them at times. 

A week or two after the sale the bereaved gentleman found 
time to think about his daughter, and to discover her present 
whereabouts. He made a solemn call upon us, and inquired 
after her welfare. Clara at first was indisposed to meet him, but 
I succeeded in persuading her that it was better to do so, and 
after a little time she succumbed to argument and entreaty. 
When I entered the room in which Delamere waited, he was 
bending caressingly over a Dresden shepherdess Which had not 
long ago been one of the least-prized objects in his own pos- 
session. 

She is divorced from her surroundings, poor thing he 
said, with a mournful smile; “divorced from her surround- 
ings. By the way, Denham, I learn that you have given an 
asylum to my daughter. 

fi’his was a little startling. The divorced shepherdess really 
seemed the more important personage of the two. 

“Miss Delamere is visiting us,’^ I answered, “and is so 
good as to give Mrs. Denham some lessons in housekeeping.'^ 

, “ That," said Mr. Delamere, with eyebrows raised in 
mingled allowance and astonishment, “is not a position 1 
should have thought her willing to occup}’'. " 

This staggered me so completely that for a moment I could 
only stare at him. I told him then, and I am afraid that I 
told him somewhat hotly, that his daughter was with us as an 
esteemed and honored guest. He put on his gold-rimmed 
'pince-nez, and said, smilingly, that I was an enthusiast. 

“ You have a warm and impetuous nature, Denham — a 
warm and impetuous nature. Is Mary within doors?" 

It was nearly five o’clock, and she was expected momently. 
I told him that she might be expected immediately, and added 
that she spent most of her time among her poor. 

“ Her poor?" he asked. “ She has that fancy still. Well, 
well." 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


179 


Clara came in afc this point, and she and Delamere met with 
an icy courtesy by no means comfortable to witness. 

^ “ I learn from your husband, Mrs. Denham,"^ he said, 
sinking gracefully into a chair, ‘‘ that Mary is laboring among 
the poor. I should suppose that, with her breeding and in- 
herited instinct, she finds that self-imposed office at times a 
little trying. 

“ My dear Mr. Delamere,^^ Clara responded, we can not 
all spend our lives in the contemplation of the beautiful. 

‘‘No, no,’^ Delamere assented. He saw as clearly as I did 
that my wife was a partisan, and likely to fight in the interests 
of her own side if she had but the slightest provocation that 
way. “ There are sterner duties in the world. 

“ Indeed there are,_^^ said Clara, with perhaps unnecessary 
warmth of emphasis. 

“ I should be the last to deny it,^^ he answered, smoothly. 
“ Cue or two of us live out of the hurly-burly of the plains, 
and invite sometimes a casual eye to our surroundings. The 
rest go their way in pursuit of meaner needs — 

“ All of them?^’ Clara asked, flushing at his tone. 

“ Is there, he asked in turn,' “ any nobler or more elevat- 
ing employment than the pursuit of beauty? Is it not at least 
worth while that a few should devote themselves to that pur- 
suit; should strive to show the world at large that beauty and 
utility are not antagonistic; that the simpler and less elevated 
forms of life need not necessarily be sordid?^^ 

“ The world is a big place, Mr. Delamere,^^ said this trucu- 
lent wife of mine, “ and there is room enough in it for some 
of all kinds of people. There may be room, perhaps, even for 
a young woman who goes about nursing the sick poor.’’^ 

“ Eoom?^' cried Delamere, avoiding combat. “ Koom, in- 
deed! Who denies honor to the social martyr? The heart is 
touched, the sympathies are fired, by the contemplation of a 
thousand silent heroisms.^’ 

Now, this was too bold a taking away of the mouse from 
pussy ^s claws to be endured with patience. 

“ Give me,^' said Clara, “ the people who live in the hurly- 
burly of the plain, as you call it. The soldier who fights for 
his country, the poor man who breaks his back over his spade, 
the chimney-sweeper who sweeps a chimney honestly — 

“My dear Clara,^' said Delamere, “I would give you a 
chi nciney-s weeper gladly if I had one. I have no taste in 
chimney-sweepers, and if such a person were upon my hands 1 
would part with him willingly to any lady who might choose 
to ask for him.^' 


180 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


“ That is a poor retort/^ said Clara, “ from a conversational 
fencer so skillful as yourself.^’ 

“Ah, really, said Delaraere, with a smile, “ if we are to 
take off the buttons from our foils and fight in earnest, I de- 
cline the combat. 

“ Out of pure pity, one supposes?^^ 

“ Out of pure fear,^^ he answered. 

“ I do not think,^^ she said, with a little indrawing of breath 
and a sligj^t pinching of the nostrils, “ that either of us would 
hurt the other much.^^ 

“ I am sure,’^ he answered, half rising to bow to her, “ that 
neither of us would desire to hurt the other. 

What end this fencing bout would have found had it been 
continued I can hardly say, though I fancy that a scratch or 
two might possibly have resulted on both sides. It was ended 
by the entrance of the chief cause of conflict. She came in 
with her pale cheeks somewhat flushed with exercise, and her 
eyes, which were commonly sadder than one liked to see them, 
brightened by the same cause. She started when she saw her 
father, and Delamere for his part cast a horror-stricken glance 
at her costume. He was evidently quite unprepared for it, as 
she was for his visit. 

“ I had not expected to find you here,^^ said Mary. 

Her manner was grave and reserved, but it was easy to see 
that she was inwardly agitated by the encounter. 

“ Do not leave us, Mrs. Denham,’^ said Delamere, seeing my 
wife make a movement toward the door. 

Then he moved across to his daughter. 

“ Pray allow me to offer you a chair, my dear. You will 
stay with us, Denham. Thank you. I have something to say 
which, as it seems to me, demands to be said in the hearing of 
all here present. 

In spite of his invitation Mary remained standing, but she 
laid her hand upon the rail of the chair he had placed for her. 
1 noticed that it trembled as she set it down, but she waited 
for what her father might have to say with a look of calm at- 
tentiveness. 

“I think,’’ said Delamere, “that I am not mistaken in 
supposing that the cause of severance between you and me is 
known or guessed by Denham and his wife. ” 

“Not a word has been spoken between Mary and myself 
upon the subject,” said Clara. “ I can’t pretend not to know 
it, but 1 know nothing of it through her.” 

“ I should have believed that of my daughter,” returned 
Delamere, “ even without your authority. It would be futile 


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181 


in a man who has just made public confession of his poverty 
to pretend to delicacy in a case like this, with respect to by- 

f one financial embarrassments. I have never had much 
nowledge of business, and 1 have proved now to my own 
satisfaction that I have a rather curious incapacity for it. My 
old friend Chetwynd, who was in the habit of advising me, 
died half a dozen years ago, and since that time 1 have tried to 
manage my own affairs. The world is not made up of honest 
and high-minded people. I was plundered on all hands, and 
but for the little collection of artistic treasures with which I 
had surrounded myself 1 should have been almost beggared. 

He delivered all this with a sort of proud humility, as if he 
took it, as I really believe he did, as a sort of distinction to be 
ignorant of business affairs. He reserved himself from boast- 
ing of it, but that was only because he would not boast of 
anything. 

“In these conditions,^^ he continued, ‘‘a gentleman for 
whom I had never professed any especial sympathy or regard 
made me an offer of pecuniary assistance. He did it in a 
manner most unexpectedly delicate and friendly. I accepted 
his assistance. There were circumstances which made that 
acceptance so distasteful to my daughter that she left her 
father^s roof. 

Apart from a certain dignified querulousness which he had 
sometimes shown, 1 had never seen a touch of emotion in him 
until now. He quavered a little on the final words of this 
portion of his speech, and made a motion as if to draw out liis 
handkerchief. He put this impulse by, however, and went on 
again with a complete resumption of his common manner: 

“ I was enabled, by an unlooked-for occurrence, to repay a 
portion of the loan much sooner than 1 had dared to hope. I 
was the more rejoiced at this inasmuch as my daughter had 
made arrangements to ingulf the whole of her own very small 
fortune in the immediate repayment of the borrowed money. 
My purpose in coming here now is to place in your hands, 
Mary, a check for the balance of the loan, and to request that 
you will forward it to the solicitors of your trustee.*’^ 

He unbuttoned his frock-coat and produced a pocket-book, 
from which he took the check he spoke of. Mary accepted it 
with a murmur of acknowledgment, and he flowed on: 

I trust that there is no feeling in your mind, my child, 
which will prevent us from reassuming our old relations toward 
each otiier. I had not intended that you should become aware 
of the obligation under which I had placed myself. It was one 
I should Jlave had no fear of offering had the conditions been 


182 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


exchanged or exchangeable, and it appears to me that a service 
which one honorable man may oiler, another man of honor 
may accept. I have never, for its own sake, regretted my 
acceptance of that proffered help. I regretted its discovery, 
and I have had reason to regret the construction which was 
placed upon it. Next to my own good opinion it is not un- 
natural, perhaps, that I should value j^ours. Next to that I 
valued the labor of my life-time. That small monument to 
beauty which 1 had so patiently and fondly reared I have 
sacrificed. I have scattered it to the four winds to regain your 
daughterly sympathy and affection. The Delamere collection 
exists no longer. The labors, studies, travels, of a life-time 
will leave no record to the world. I had hoped, he con- 
tinued, a little moved again by his own eloquence, “ to have 
bequeathed it to the nation. It was small, but in itself it was 
complete, and it might have taught a lesson. ‘ Ex pede Her- 
culem, ^ 

Now, I dare say that if we had not all three been perfectly 
well aware that the Delamere collection had been «old from an 
altogether different motive than that which Delamere claimed, 
we might have been affected by his sacrifice, and have taken 
him to our hearts with instant affection. For my own part I 
should have preferred to have been miles away, for on Mary^s 
behalf I found the scene difficult to endure. 

“lam very glad, she said, “ that the money is repaid, and 
I am very sorry that the collection had to be sold.-*^ 

What made the thing a little worse for mq^was that I knew, 
on the best authority, that Pole had never offered Delamere 
anything, or had indeed so much as known of his necessities 
until Delamere himself had written to him about them. I 
fancy, from the look his daughter gave him when he spoke of 
the generous offer made to him, that she -ehared my knowl- 
edge. It was a beseeching and frightened glance, and I read 
into it a prayer on her part that he would not lower himself 
in her eyes. 

Delamere had evidently made less by his motion than he had 
anticipated. He looked surprised at Mary’s brief and simple 
answer. 

“ Do you leave me to conjecture,^^ he demanded, “ that 
anything in the nature of a barrier remains between us.^’^ 

“ Would it not be better,’" she asked, “ to talk of this when 
we are alone?” 

Delamere reddened and walked to the window, where he 
stood for a moment looking on the street. The cliek of the 
door-latch seemed to reach his ear, for he turned at the mo- 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


183 


ment at which Clara and I were slipping quietly from the. 
room. 

“ Denham/^ he cried, in a louder voice than he often used, 
“ I desire your presence. Mrs. Denham, I beg you to re- 
main. 

He strode over swiftly to us as he spoke, and holding the 
door so as to prevent my closing it, drew us .back into the 
room. 

“ I appeal to you, Denham,^’ he said, then closing the door 
and standing with his back against it, as if to bar any further 
attempt at egress. “ Those who know you best speak of you 
as an honorable man. I appeal to you as. an honorable man 
to say if, in this matter, in your judgment, I have done any- 
thing unbefitting.^^ 

1 have often been placed in embarrassing positions, but so 
far in the whole course of my life I have known nothing to 
equal the extreme awkwardness of that moment. I could only 
answer that I would infinitely prefer not to be appealed to, 
and that in these matters another man^s opinion was quite 
valueless. I added that I would accept no man’s judgment as 
to my own acts or character. 

“ It is Mary’s wish,” said Clara, decisively, putting her arm 
through mine as she spoke, “ to continue this conversation 
alone. 1 am sure that that is the best and wisest course. 
Perhaps Mr. Delamere will be so kind as to open the door. 
Thank you.” 

Mr. Delamere opened the door, and closed it behind us, and 
that was the last Clara and I saw of him for a considerable 
time. We could hear his voice below us in stormy or persua- 
sive tones for something like the space of half an hour. At 
the end of that time he went away. 

“ I wish,” said Clara, “ that he would ask me for my 
opinion of his conduct in Mary’s absence. It would be a posi- 
tive relief to me to let him know it.” 

Plainly, Delaniere’s sense of honor differed widely from that 
of the common run of men, and where that happens it is 
always a misfortune. I do not tliink he ever rose to a clearer 
conception of the case than to suspect vaguely that he might 
have acted less delicately than he would have preferred to do 
if he had taken time to think about it. No doubt it seemed 
to him that a considerable hubbub was being made about a 
very simple matter. It was a long time before he brought 
himself to forgive my preference for silence. 


184 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

I HAVE already had occasion to mention a certain weekly 
publication which called itself a journal of society, and was the 
forerunner of a large and important family with which the 
world is now familiar. The existence of this journal was brief 
and stormy. While it continued to appear it made a con- 
siderable noise in the world, but until it finally made so loud a 
bruit that it fell to pieces in the shock of sound itself created, 
it made no greater sensation than by its articles on ‘‘ The 
Buried Lady of Title. It was a scandal-loving print, and as 
different from its decorous successors as chalk from cheese. 
Those who bought it and read its pages did so in the unfailing 
hope, not often disappointed, of finding something to the dis- 
advantage of people in high places. Its conductors had never 
before h^ad so piquant, so exciting, and so strange a story to 
tell as this of the buried lady of title. They made the most 
of it, doling out the story in installments week by week, and 
asseverated so stoutly that the narrative, curious as it was, was 
made up of simple facts, that even the most doubtful began to 
take a sort of speculative interest in it, and to look forward 
with curiosity for next week^s revelations. 

By whatsoever means the tale had come to the ears of the 
man who wrote it, there was no denying its accuracy or its 
completeness. The story of Pole^s unfortunate hidden 
marriage was related in detail.. No names or places were men- 
tioned, but to one who knew the history already the identifica- 
tion of the people concerned was not merely easy but unescapa- 
ble. The parting of the ill-assorted pair was slurred over 
somewhat, but from that point the narrative became once 
more precise and clear. There is no need to repeat it, for it 
tallied with what has already been set down in these pages. 
The writer, loath to part with so interesting a theme, dragged 
it on from week to week, until at last, in large type, he an- 
nounced the presence of the .buried lady in London. He stated 
that a representative of the journal had been admitted to an 
interview with her, that she declared the plot to have been in- 
vented by her husband, and was prepared to take such simple 
and immediate steps as were necessary for the establishment 
of her own position. 

Now, this was a very remarkable statement, and if it could 
possibly have been true would have been disquieting; but there 
was so little doubt that Pole’s wife had already surrendered 


The weaker vessel. 


185 


herself into the hands of the law that the threat of return was 
preposterous. The thing was evidently a brutem fulmen, and 
demanded nothing but to be left to itself. I got letters from 
Pole, who still lingered in Paris, and had heard the news there, 
to this precise effect. I wrote to him in the same strain, and 
it was agreed between us that there was nothing to be done 
but to let the rumor die. 

The rumor obstinately refused to die, and coming at a sea- 
son when not much in the way of public interest was stirring, 
it grew to be probably the commonest topic of conversation in 
London at that season. A startling murder chased it for a 
week, or nearly, but the criminal was caught, and the buried 
lady of title came into vogue again. Then, though the dis- 
creet journalist still found no names, the world at large got 
hold of them, and Lord and Lady Worborough were in all 
men^s mouths. If Clara and I had been disposed to be as 
communicative upon this topic as our friends would have de- 
sired, we might, I v^ily believe, have made ourselves the lion- 
ess and lion of the hour. As it was, we grew rather unpopular 
by reason of our reticence. 

Our world at large made such a pother about the revelations 
of the society journalist, and appealed to me as Pole’s bosom 
friend with so much pertinacity, that almost anybody who did 
not talk about this one disagreeable theme would have been 
welcome. Jones, who was superior to all sorts of vulgar in- 
terest, came by times, and talked upon the questions, with 
which he particularly concerned himself. When he first ap- 
peared I was inclined to be afraid that he intended to renew 
his unavailing pursuit of Mary Delamere. Clara shared this 
belief or doubt of mine, and so 1 thought it best to come at 
once to an understanding. I invited him to my study under 
specious pretext of consulting him as to the authenticity of 
some prints 1 had lately purchased, and, having decoyed him 
thither, opened fire upon him at once. 

“ Jones,” I said, with the solemnity and solidity befitting a 
family man, you are aware of the fact that Miss Delamere 
is at present residing here.” Jones admitting tliis, I put it to 
him as gently as I could that in his capacity of old friend Miss 
Delamere and ourselves would be very glad to welcome him. 
But — Jones took the hint with a smiling alacrity. 

“ Ah,” he said, “ I remember to have spoken to you about 
that matter in those queer old rooms of yours in Gray’s Inn 
before anybody supposed that you were going to be one of her 
majesty’s commissioners, and when I seemed likelier than 
yourself to wear the rosy hymeneal fetters. You remember 


186 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


that I expressed some doubt about the wisdom of the course at 
the time, even though 1 actually proposed to embark upon it. 

1 told Jones that I remembered his remarks at that time to 
have been characterized by his usual wisdom and excellent 
good taste. I had found out long ago that it was quite im- 
possible to wound Jones in that way. No faintest suspicion 
of a want of sincerity in people who took that tone with him 
ever crossed his mind. It relieved me and left Jones unhurt, 
so that there was a kind of mild double pleasure in it. 

“ Well,^^ he said, “it is given to a happy few to blunder 
and not to be punished for their blunders. I was saved from 
the results of my own indiscretion, and I am not likely to re- 
new it. Miss Delamere need not fear that I shall play the 
part of the disconsolate lover. I do not think,^^ he added, 
with a conquering smile, “ that it is a r61e for which I was 
cast by nature. I do not think it a part in which I should be 
likely to shine. 

In that case, I told him, he should be welcome to the general 
bosom of the household. I was glad to know that he was 
cured, and eveh expressed a hope that his sufterings had not 
been at any time abnormally severe. 

“ No,’^ he said, with the same conquering smile, “ I think 
not. Do you know, Denham,^^ he continued, in his philo- 
sophico-confidential manner, “ I have been rather devoting my- 
self of late to the observation of the youthful male of our 
species. I have more especially directed my studies to the 
point at which he is said to be in love. I am assuming no airs 
of superiority. I am quite conscious that not very long ago I 
trenched with a perilous nearness upon his position. But if 1 
were not putting myself into an insolent competition with the 
general opinion, I should be very much inclined to say that 
the youthful male, absurd as he commonly and inevitably is, 
is more absurd at that moment than at any other of his whole 
foolish and futile existence.^'’ 

One never knows the truth about one’s self, and I may have 
been as great a prig in laughing at Jones as Jones was in de- 
serving to be laughed at. I did laugh, however, with great 
heartiness, anddie was pleased — so pleased, in fact, that he set 
up as a social humorist for the rest of the evening, and exerted 
himself to be delightful. It was not unnatural, finding him- 
self the cause of so much innocent and admiring hilarity, that 
he should make his visits pretty constant. He told me once, 
1 remember, that he was at his best in my society. It was not, 
he was good enough to say, because I lent any additional brill- 
iance to the conversational fire-works of the evening by any 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


187 


effort of my own. I was receptive. 1 was appreciative. I 
gave him courage. He felt safe in my presence and knew that 
he was understood — not wholly, perhaps, but fairly well — lest 
I should grow too proud. 

It happened one night when we were dining that Jones came 
in in evening-dress to announce the possession of a box at her 
Majesty’s. Some considerable person of Jones’s acquaintance 
had taken the box, and finding himself unable at the last hour 
to use it, had sent it to him. Would Mrs. Denham and my- 
self accompany him? The new prima-donna, who had taken 
the world by storm, was to sing that night. Royalty would be 
present. Jones was certainly superior to the coarse, unreason- 
ing sentiment of loyalty which touched the crowd, and yet had 
a furtive liking for a prince. Would we go? 

The point was under discussion when a loud double knock 
sounded at the front door, and a telegram was brought in to 
me. I asked Jones’s leave to open it, and this being gra- 
ciously accorded, 1 read it, and found that it came from Pole. 
He was back in town, had gone to his old chambers, and 
begged me earnestly to meet him there with all possible dis- 
patch. He would stay in his rooms till midnight awaiting me. 

I passed the telegram to Clara, who gave a little start on 
reading the n^-me by which it was signed, and a veiled glance 
at Mary, who sat opposite. She passed it back to me and as- 
sumed a face of comic dismay to hide, if need were, the effect 
the name had made upon her. 

“ John,” she said, “ it is too bad. I had set my heart on 
* Eigoletto.’ Of course you must go. The business must be 
urgent, or he would not use such terms.” 

Could you intrust Mrs. Denham to my care?” Jones 
asked, “ and join us afterward?” 

“We should be leaving you alone, dear,” said my wife to 
Mary. 

“ I am not at all afraid to be left alone,” she answered, 
smiling. “ You must let me help you to dress. There is not 
much time to lose.” 

So Jones’s suggestion was adopted, and I having answered 
Pole’s dispatch, hastily changed my attire, and a hansom hav- 
ing been got to the door, departed, in some wonder as to the 
object of my friend’s return and the meaning of his pressing 
desire to see me. It was not long before these questions found 
an answer. Pole was waiting for me in his rooms, and at the 
sound of my hurried footsteps on the stair he opened the door 
and admitted me. 

“ You must forgive me,” he began, “ for disturbing you 


188 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


with my affairs. You are the only man in the woi*ld who 
knows the whole story, and you are the only man with whom 
1 can bear to talk about it. Sit down and look at these, and 
tell me what 1 ought to do.^^ 

These were a little sheaf of bills, made out to the 
Countess of Worborough. Most of them were receipted — all 
but two, in fact, which I found at the bottom of the pile. I 
glanced over them hastily, and found one from a milliner, one 
from a jeweler, another from a job-master, another from an 
upholsterer. There were eight or nine in all, and roughly 
they amounted to between two and three thousand pounds. 
Of this sum, fully two thousand appeared to have been paid. 

‘‘ Tell me what it all means, I said. 

“ Read that first, he said, with a groan, throwing a 
crumpled note upon the table. 

It was still warm from his hand when I took it from the 
table, and it was so tightly pressed together in places that I 
had some difficulty in opening it without tearing the paper. 
When I had succeeded, 1 read in an excited-looking scrawl 
that the Countess of Worborough presented her compliments 
to the Earl of Worborough. She was informed that she had 
committed forgery in signing his name to the checks by which 
the inclosed bills were paid. If the Earl of Worborough chose 
to encounter the scandal of a prosecution, the countess would 
be unfeignedly delighted. That was all. 

It appeared that, by some means as yet unknown. Lady 
Worborough had become possessed of a check-book from her 
husband’s bank, had signed his name, and being confronted 
by the tradesmen, had calmly announced the forgery, and had 
sent this note through Pole^s solicitor. Two of the tradesmen 
had accompanied her to the lawyer’s office, and all had agreed 
to wait for an answer from Lord Worborough himself before 
taking further proecedings. Pole had arrived in town that 
morning, had spent liis day in settling the accounts, and now 
wanted counsel. 

“ It’s not the money,” he said, walking agitatedly up and 
down the room. ‘‘ I had enough and to spare before the money 
came to me, and if she would only go away and be quiet with 
it, she should be welcome to it, every farthing. I would 
rather break stones at the road-side, and live on a shilling a 
day, than live in constant dread that this kind of scandal should 
be sprung upon me. ” 

In all my acquaintance with him I had never until now 
known him to lose his self-possession. But now all his old 
nonchalance was gone; his voice shook with shame and anger. 


THE WEAKEIi VESSEL. 


m 

his footsteps and his gestures were disordered, and his whole 
bearing was changed. 

“If I gave her all 1 had/'’ he went on, “ i can guess what 
use she would make of it. I have half a mind to do it and 
take an alias, and go away to California and make a living 
there by my own hands. 

In awhile he began to recover himself again, and he re- 
sumed, in something like his accustomed manner: 

“ But you see. Jack', the money isnU mine. The next heir 
has as good a right to it as I had. And even if it were abso- 
lutely mine, to do as I pleased with, there are grave responsi- 
bilities attaching to the mere annual income. It^s possible to 
do a prodigious amount of good with such a suni. It^s possi- 
ble to do a prodigious amount of harm. I canT run away; 
I canT turn tail and hide myself. You forgive me,^'’ he 
said, suddenly, “for throwiifg my miseries on your shoul- 
ders.^^ He laid both hands upon me and rocked me to and 
fro a little after his old fashion, and then, turning away, be- 
gan to pace the room again, but more slowly and despond- 
ently than before. , 

I told him truly, that 1 wished, above all other things, to be 
of use to him. Could we, I asked him, decide upon anything, 
and could I act as his emissary? 

“ I tried to face the lawyer about it this afternoon,^^ he said, 
“ and I had not the courage to do it. I had to face the trades- 
men, and that was shame enough for one day. She knows,'’’ 
he went on sadly desperate in voice and face, “ that I will bear 
anything bearable rather than endure any public scandal which 
can draw another name into its ugly coils, and she presumes 
on that.” 

“ You told her once in my hearing,” I responded, “ that 
you held one power only over her, and that you would use it. 
You can make an arrangement with her, an arrangement 
which all men would admit to be generous, and if she will not 
accept that with reasonable conditions, all men will hold you 
justified in using your power.” 

“ I can threaten her with it,” he answered; “ but how can 
I carry the threat into action? How could I leave my wife 
penniless, let her do what she would?” 

“ Offer her,’'’ 1 answered, “ a fixed allowance, on condition 
that she refrains in all ways from annoying you. If she refuse 
that allowance, you are not responsible for the refusal. The 
position is unhappy, but you are not helpless in it. You have 
only to decide and to be strong.” 

“ That,” said Pole, “ is the plain common sense of the case. 


190 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


and I know it as well as you do. But it is not easy to decide, 
nor easy to be strong. Strength and decision may end in 
bringing an innocent creature within reach of common gossip 
and offensive pity. 1 tell you,^’ he added, passionately, “ my 
wife has this hold upon me, and she knows it. In her life-time, 
by that horrible plot of hers, an innocent, pure-minded, high- 
bred woman promised to become my wife. I would rather die 
— I would rather go on dying every day than drag her name 
into publicity* 

I argued with him, long and earnestly. I showed him that 
until he took some such step as I counseled he could not hope 
for a moment to be free of annoyance, or even free of the dan- 
ger of disgrace. 1 got him at last to assent to this proposal; 
That I should make it my business on the morrow to secure 
an interview with his wife, and to make an offer to her of an 
income of five thousand pounds *per annum, on condition that 
she quitted England, and undertook in no way to molest her 
husband. 

“ Suppose,'^ he asked me, she should accept the offer and 
break her promise.^” 

“ Let the agreement,^’ I answered, “ be drawn up by your 
own lawyer, and let him be answerable for your side of it. Let 
her be answerable for her own. No man can blame you. No 
man can have anything but sympathy for anybody who suffers 
as you do. 

So far, then, the thing was allowed to stand as if decided. 
The matter and the manner of an interview had afforded but 
a poor prelude to a night^s enjoyment at the opera. But life 
has to be lived somehow, and it is an old commonplace that 
sad hearts often find themselves in haunts of pleasure. After 
a good deal of pei-suasion Pole Was induced to accompany me, 
and when he had dressed we set out together. Jones was 

g leased to find a place for Lord Worborough in his box, and 
lara welcomed him with evident heartiness. 

We heard but little of the music, and were disturbed on 
more grounds than one. The audience shared a part of our 
disturbance, for there was a fiarty in the next box whose mem- 
bers persisted, in spite of indignant cries of “ Order in loud 
conversation and laughter. Once or twice there arose a con- 
siderable clamor, and at one moment an indignant official of 
the house knocked at the door of the box in which we sat, and 
being admitted, requested us to keep silence. 

“ We,^* said Jones, “ are among the chief sufferers from 
the disturbance, not the creators of it. The noise comes from 
the next box. 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


191 


A louder burst of laughter than we had heard before con- 
firmed the statement almost at the moment at which it was 
made. The indignant official melted for one moment into 
apology, "grew instantly inJignant again, and withdrew. We 
heard him rapping at the next door, and after this the noise 
became less marked, though conversation was still carried on 
in a higher key and with less restraint than is usual in such 
places. 

I tried to fix my attention upon the business of the stage, 
but my thoughts wandered from it persistently, and I went 
back in fancy to the interview just over, and forward in fancy 
to the business of the morrow. I disliked that coming inter- 
view less than I should have fancied, and even felt something 
of the glow of battle as I contemplated it. I was just resolv- 
ing in my mind how uniformly courteous 1 would be, yet how 
firm and decisive, and was rehearsing the speech I meant to 
make, when the music, which had all the while been swelling 
and swelling, and no doubt helping my martial thoughts by 
its cadenced clash and roar, stopped suddenly as if a cataract 
should have ceased in full bound. A voice sprung out of the 
sudden silence, and every creature in the theater must have 
heard it. What words came before^ or what words were in- 
tended to follow afterward, I could not guess. But the words 
that struck through the sudden silence were neither more nor 
less than these — “ Lady Worborough.^^ 

They were spoken in a shrill and ill-bred female voice, and 
were, as I have said, audible to every person in the theater. 
People turned and stared, and there was a hubbub of cries of 
‘‘ Order “ Shame and “ silence and voices called from 
the gallery, ‘‘Turn them out!^^ From that moment a hush 
fell upon the noisy occupants of the box, and we heard no 
more of them. At the sound of - the words we had all turned 
to look at one another in a common astonishment. Pole^s 
pale face flushed crimson, and then went gray. W e sat after- 
ward in a confused and comfortless silence, and the final de- 
scent of the curtain was a relief to all four of us. We delayed 
a moment in quitting the box, and the lately noisy people, 
our neighbors, went out before us. Pole laid a hand upon my 
arm and detained me for a moment, while Clara and Jones 
passed out upon the corridor. 

“ She was there,’' he said. 

“ No, no,” I answered. “ The name has been on every- 
body’s lips for a week past.” i could have bitten my tongue 
ofi a second later for my stupidity, but he did not seem to 
notice it. 


I9r'> 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


“ She was there/' he said. “ I heard her voice half a 
dozen times. " 

Clara was looking brightly back at us, smiling at something 
Jones was saying as he arranged her cloak. She beckoned me 
with her fan, and we went out and joined her. The corridor 
and the stairs were fast emptying, but there was a crowd in 
the vestibule, and the usual clamor of voices sounded there. 
It was raining slightly out of-doors, and people were pausing 
to put up umbrellas. We made-our way through the con- 
course slowly; and as we came out upon the colonnade a man 
with a stentorian voice bellowed, “ Lady Worborough's car- 
riage!" 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

I HAD no difficulty in escaping from the light duties of my 
office, and at noon on the following day I sought out Lady 
Worborough at the address her husband had given, me. Judg- 
ing from the upholsterer's bills I had seen, she had begun the 
furnishing of a house, but she was for the time being residing 
in a hotel; a quiet, solid, old-fashioned, and expensive house, 
of which I could only remember to have heard that it was com- 
monly used by a very distinguished person in my own part of 
the country on his rare visits to town. It had the severest sort 
of aspect when I reached it, and the solemn old butler who 
came forward to inquire my business would have been at home 
in the establis^hment of a bishop. I gave him my card and 
asked for Lady Worborough. A little to my surprise, he 
showed me upstairs without inquiry, and conducted me into 
the ante-chamber of what turned out to be a splendid suite of 
rooms, very large, very solemn, and lonely looking. Here he 
left me for a moment to look about me, and passed into a 
room beyond. He came back after a very little time. 

“ Lady Worborough will receive you, sir," he said. ‘‘Will 
you be so good as to walk this way, sir?" 

He led me through a room much longer than the first, into 
an apartment where a table had been laid for breakfast. The 
breakfast paraphernalia was still there, in some disorder, and 
beyond the table stood a gaunt woman, something over middle 
age, of unmistakably French aspect. She had almost a 
dragoon-looking mustache, and her tall, spare figure was rigor- 
ously embraced by a tight-fitting bodice of dull black silk. 
Her cuffs and collar were of a gentlemanly pattern, and her 
black waveless hair was parted on one side. For a mere sec- 
ond on beholding her I was uncertain of her sex. 


193 


THE WEAKEK VESSEL. 

Will monsieur give himself the trouble to be seated?^ ^ she 
said, addressing me in French. “ Madame la Comtesse will 
be here immediately.^^ 

She sat down. in a military attitude, and I took the chair her 
gaunt finger h^d indicated. The elderly butler retired, clos- 
ing the door behind him, and we sat in a chill, prim silence 
for perhaps five minutes. The lady smoothed her cufis and 
her mustache, and looked at me uncompromisingly, as though 
she were a military person who carried a cartel of defiance. 
At last the door opened, and Lady Worborough swept upon 
the scene for all the world as if the foot-lights had gleamed be- 
fore her. She was attired in a gorgeous dressing-gown of scar- 
let silk and black lace, and she wore white lace at the throat 
and wrists. The door had been thrown open for her by some 
person out of my range of sight, and was closed behind her as 
she entered. She threw the skirts of her dressing-gown about 
her feet, and s1;ood, posed for a second or two, as if waiting 
applause. Then she inclined her head to me, and made a mo- 
tion with her hand to her companion, who obediently placed a 
chair behind her. She sunk into this, and settled herself lei- 
surely, with, the same stage exaggeration of common manners 
which had marked her Entrance. With all this sorrowful 
affectation there was no abatement in the bitter and disdainful 
hauteur of her look, and whenever, in the slow, purposed stage 
majesty of her movements, her eyes encoimtered mine, they 
glided away with the old, insufferable hate and pride. 

“ To what,^’ she asked me, am I indebted for the honor 
of this visit?^^ 

“ 1 am afraid, I responded, “ that I can not speak of the 
business which brings me here in the presence of a third per- 
son. ' 

‘‘ Madame Surel does not understand a word of English,''^ 
she said, with a sort of scorn and impatience in her tone, as if 
she had expected me to know this. You may tell me your 
business and begone. 

1 will not detain you,^^ I answered, “ a moment longer 
than is necessary. 

‘‘ You detain me unnecessarily in saying so,^^ she answered. 

Let us have no flourishes. Say what you have to say, and 
go.^^ 

Thus exhorted, I made myself as brief as possible. 

‘‘I am here. Lady Worboroi^h, as your husband^s mes- 
senger. At this first mention of her title I saw the first 
touch of complacency I had ever seen upon her features. She 
repressed it instantly, and looked, if possible, more proud and 


194 THE WEAKER VESSEL. 

self -disdainful than before. He desires me/^ I continued, 
“ to lay a proposal before you which he hopes may close all 
contest between you and him. On his side he is willing to pay 
to you during your life-time a sum of five thousand pounds 
per annum, and on your side he asks an undertaking that you 
will leave England, and that you will not in any way molest 
him. He will pay the debts you have incurred until now, and 
will make over to you all properties you may have acquired in 
making them. But he will be answerable for nothing fur- 
ther.^’' 

If I had seen the faintest hope of succeeding by persuasion, 
if I had been tempted by any little fancy tliat she could have 
been touched by appeal or reason, I would Jiave taken another 
tone, and have chosen other words. As it was, 1 simply laid 
my message before her dryly, and kept all feeling out of it. 

“You will tell Lord Worborough,^"’ she said, “ that I reject 
his contemptible offer with the scorn it merits. 

“ I am instructed,^'’ I returned, “ to say that no other offer 
will be made, and that in case of the refusal of the conditions 
now proposed to you. Lord Worborough will feel compelled to 
leave England — 

“ And leave me,^^ she interjected, “ to my own devices? I 
know what to expect from Lord Worborough. It will be quite 
as well that Lord Worborough should know what to expect 
from me. You bring me his ultimatum. You may carry 
back mine. I will take nothing less than the position which is 
justly due to me. 

I asked her to define that position. 

“ Since Lord Worborough decides to live apart from me,^^ 
she answered, “ and since I would on no grounds consent to 
hold any avoidable intercourse with Lord Worborough, I claim 
that my solicitor and his shall meet to ascertain the amount of 
his yearly income, and that it shall be strictly halved between 
us. I claim to live in England if I choose, and to spend half 
the year at Worborough Court and half the year in my house 
in town. I claim at such times to invite whom I please. 

It was not with the slightest hope of reasoning with her, or 
bringing her to see her own side smaller than she saw it by 
the light of nature, but out of pure curiosity to know how far 
her contemptuous disregard of others would carry her, that I 
asked where Lord Worborough was to live. She raised her 
eyebrows with a theatrical pretense of indifferent astonishment. 

“ What is it to me where Lord AVorborough lives, or where 
Lord Worborough dies? If Lord Worborough should cease to 
live I shall have my claim upon the estate. 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


195 


I hastened to close the interview. 

“ The agreement of which I have spoken will be drawn up 
by Lord Worborough^s lawyer at once, and submitted to your 
ladyship.-’^ 

‘‘ Lord Worborough^s solicitor may save himself the trouble 
of drawing up any such document. If it is submitted to me I 
shall put it in the fire.'’^ 

“ That is your last word upon the matter, madame?^^ 

‘‘ That is my last word upon the matter, sir."” 

I rose and turned to go, but recollected that I had not de- 
livered the whole of the message intrusted to me. 

‘‘ I am to say,^^ I added, pausing half-way to the door, 

that an advertisement will appear to-morrow morning in 
every London daily journal to the effect that Lord Worborough 
will not hold himself responsible for any debt whatever con- 
tracted in his name. He will make arrangements with his 
men of business for cash payment in respect of everything 
that may be required by them, will abolish his own personal 
banking account, and draw solely upon his steward.'^ 

She turned a little pale at this, and 1 thought that 1 had 
made an impression upon her. I waited in silence for a con- 
siderable time, but she gave me no answer. Her hands, which 
I noticed for the first time were glittering with heavy and 
valuable-looking rings, clutched at the scarlet silk of her dress- 
ing-gown with precisely such an exaggerated motion of anger 
as an actress would have employed upon the scene. 

“ Permit me. Lady Worbourough,"’'- 1 said. “ There is no 
desire to be harsh or overbearing. The offer I am empowered 
to make is generous, and no court of law in the world will find 
it inadequate to your position. The offer will never be with- 
<lrawn upon your husband^s side, and upon signature of the 
document I have named you will be able at any time to realize 
the allowance made to you. But no further offer will be 
made, and no penny will be paid until the document is 
signed. 

“ Very well, sir,^^ she answered, “ you have my answer, and 
you may go. I will starve in the streets rather than accept 
this wretched pittance. 

She rose to her feet, and strode to and fro about the room, 
swinging her trailing gown about her as she turned, with a 
hand obviously trained and skillful. The old sense I had of 
her having rehearsed the scene came back upon me, and I 
could see that she had, in her own fierce, self -hating way, a 
relish and enjoyment for the airs she practiced and the tones 
she used. 


196 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


And who are you?^^ she cried, pausing suddenly in a 
statuesque attitude, with both hands drawn backward clutch- 
ing her robe and her chin high in the air. Who are you 
who dare to come here to insult me with this infamous mes- 
sage? You, my husband^s hanger-on and toady, who owe the 
bread you eat to the generosity of Lord Worborough. 

“ That, madame,^' I answered, “ is no part of the question 
I was empowered to discuss. I have the honor to wish you a 
good-day. 

She flashed between me and the door in an instant, setting 
her back against it with simulated pantings of rage and scorn, 
and eyes wide open. All the airs were simulated, but there 
was evidently a real passion behind them. Pole had told me 
something, though not much, of the manner of her rages, and 
I began to see that I was fated to witness at least one of them. 
She rated me at first with a slow and measured tone, which 
gradually increased in volume and rapidity, until it grew to an 
inarticulate shriek. She tore the laces from her neck and 
wrists, and rent them with teeth and fingers into fragments. 
Whatever pretense she had begun with, she had got past her 
own guardianship by this time, and was embarked upon the 
full tide of a mad hysteria. The gaunt female who acted as 
her companion seemed accustomed to this display. She 
marched quietly and with a determined, air to her mistress, 
and then moving suddenly behind her, pinioned her elbows, 
and, in spite of her raging resistance, drew her from the door. 

Allez-vous-en !” she said to me, in one of the pauses of 
the mad, screaming voice. 

I needed no second bidding, but slipped out hastily, closing 
the door behind me. In the next apartment the wild cries 
sounded almost as fiercely in my ears as they had done at first. 
I closed a second door, and they were fainter; a third, and 
they were barely audible. I could still hear them, or fancied 
that I heard them, in the hall; but the solemn old butler, who 
may, for all I can tell, have been a little hard of hearing, gave 
no sign, but opened the door and bowed me out upon the 
street with an unaltered gravity of politeness. I had not 
arranged to meet Pole again until the evening, but, according 
to agreement, I made my way to his solicitor, and gave him 
instructions for the preparation of the document. He prom- 
ised, under pressure, that it should be ready for delivery on 
the morrow; and I returned to my own duties, such as they 
were, and remained in my office till the customary hour of 
leaving. 

If ever Pole had stood in need of justification to my mind, 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


197 


the scene in which I had just taken part would have amply 
served his turn. As it was, it served onl}^ to confirm an opin- 
ion already sufiiciently fixed and solid. 

When we met that evening I told him the result of the in- 
terview. 

‘‘ I expected as much/^ he said. “ She will not yield, and 
I dare not. She must go her own way and dree her weird. 

We drew up between us the advertisement we had decided 
upon, and sent a commissionaire in a cab to the advertisement 
offices of the various London papers, and next morning the 
announcement appeared, and was naturally much talked of. 
Pole lingered in London long enough to complete his instruc- 
tions to his lawyer and to give directions to his steward. It 
was decided to close W^^borough Court and to leave only the 
servants absolutely necessary for its preservation from decay; 
and the unhappy master of the stately old place went abroad 
again, to carry his burden as best he might. 

Before he went it was decided that in case of any new move- 
ment on the part of Lady Worborough 1 was to be consulted 
by the lawyer before action on our side was taken. Pole was 
going to move about, not knowing as yet in what direction, 
and caring as little as he knew. 

At our parting he named Mary Delamere of his own accord 
for the first time since the discovery of his wife^s plot. He 
asked after her health and general welfare with a quiet, sor- 
rowful composure, and I answered him with perfect truth and 
candor. She suffered, but she suffered very nobly, to my 
thinking, and I told him that he might be sure that in awhile 
she would find a tranquil happiness. That was our good-bye, 
for the train started as I spoke, and we had time for no more 
than a final shake hands. 

About a week later 1 was seated in my office, when a mes- 
senger announced a visitor. The visitor, being ushered in, ap- 
peared as a sandy-haired and pale-complexioned man of middle 
age, who had a jaunty manner and an air of humorous enjoy- 
ment of things in general, tempered by a habit of respectful- 
ness. He announced himself as coming from Pole^s lawyer, 
and he brought with him a curious and embarrassing history. 
Lady Worborough had, it seemed, taken up her quarters at 
the Court, had taken her companion with her, and had pro- 
claimed her right to stay there. The messenger appeared to 
find a certain not easily discernible drollery in this history, 
and smiled outright half a dozen times in telling it. My glance 
seemed always to quell this unseasonable tendency to mirtli on 
his part; but if I turned from him for a moment it was only 


198 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


to find him inspired once more to a broad grin by the hidden 
humor of the situation. 

“ The steward circulated the advertisement, sir, among the 
local tradespeople, but Lady Worborough has so far paid in 
ready money, and of course nobody has refused to serve her. 
She doesn't seem to spend much, her ladyship doesn't. She 
has killed quite a number of the cocks- and 'ens in the back 
premises " — here the broad grin flashed out again, was strug- 
gled with, under the influence of my unsympathetic eye, and 
with difficulty dismissed — “ and we learn, sir, that she has 
given orders for a dozen pigs to be killed and salted down, as 
if she had made up her mind to stand the siege. Of course it 
costs her nothing to maintain the servants, because they are 
on board wages, and are paid regularly by the steward. Mr. 
Wantage would very much like to know, sir, what, in your 
opinion, ought to be done under the circumstances. " 

I could think of nothing that could be done under the cir- 
cumstances, but to leave Lady Worborough in possession of 
the Court until circumstances compelled her to vacate it. 
The lawyer, when I came to confer with him, shared in this 
opinion; but when it came to our ears, as it did later on, that 
articles of value were being sold, we deemed it our duty to in- 
terfere. The dull and stupid contention went on for six 
months, and then her ladphip, tiring of the business, disap- 
peared. There were occasional paragraphs in the newspapers, 
by which one learned that the eccentric Lady Worborough was 
at Bath, or that the eccentric Lady Worborough was at Scar- 
borough. But by and by these flickered out, and for a full 
year no intelligence of her doings reached me. I supposed 
that she was living upon the proceeds of her last raid upon her 
husband, and I looked forward with certainty to her reappear- 
ance when her store should be exhausted. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

Ik the rear of my house there was a garden, not at all a 
large affair, for land in that part of town is too expensive to 
be set apart for anything so unprofitable as mere health and^ 
pleasure. It measured eleven yards by eight, and was bor- 
dered by a brick wall, into which the smoke of thousands of 
household fires seemed actually to have entered. When we 
first took possession of the house this wall looked exceedingly 
raw and desolate, and there was even a suspicion of squalor 
about it, which was altogether out of accord with the aristo- 
cratic character of the neighborhood and tne magnitude of the 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


199 


rent. But as the spring advanced certain forlorn - looking 
creepers began to bourgeon, and the bare trees, not only in my 
own garden but in the gardens of my neighbors, took a hope- 
ful show of green, and by the time the kindly summer reached 
us the dingy wall was three fourths hidden with flowers and 
foliage, and a screen of live emerald folded round us so com- 
pletely that by dint of a little imagination we could fancy our- 
selves in the middle of a country solitude. We had a gayly 
striped tent erected here, with a boarded and carpeted floor, 
and there, when my official duties for the day were over, we 
held revel over five-o’clock tea. Sometimes, on very bright 
mornings, we made a pretense of a picnic, and breakfasted 
out there, to the particular satisfaction of the page-boy, who 
adopted the picnic idea more completely than any other mem- 
ber of the household, and decorated his face with London 
blacks by rolling on the grass behind the tent, out of sight, in 
the intervals of duty. 

^ It was pleasant, in the summer dusk, to take one’s after- 
dinner coflee and cigar in this retreat, or to lie upon a rug on 
the limited scrap of lawn, staring up at the smoke-softened 
sky, which, in clear and tranquil weather, is more beautiful 
than the average Londoner seems to know or dream. 

It was near dark one evening after a day of sweltering heat 
when I lay thus engaged, thinking in a hazy fashion of many 
things. Clara and Mary had been seated beside me, talking 
quietly, and now, perhaps for a quarter of an hour, my wife 
and I had been alone together. We had not exchanged a word 
during this time, but I was filled with a pleasant sense of her 
nearness and comj^anionship, and it has always seemed to me 
to be a rather poor and thin companionship where people must 
needs be perpetually talking. It w^as an understood thing be- 
tween us, though nobody spoke of it, that a battle was near at 
hand. In a week or two Mary’s promised stay of six months 
would come to a close, and we knew that though she was far 
happier with us than she would have been elsewhere, she 
would make an eflort more or less determined to return to the 
sisterhood. Personally I was resolved to make a very deter- 
mined effort to retain her, and I was the more resolute because 
I thought I had seen now and again a cloud upon Clara’s 
spirits which 1 attributed to her fear of the approaching part- 

She sat at the door of the tent, with a book, which it was 
too dark to read, held laxly in one hand beside her, with a 
finger between the leaves, still unconsciously marking the page 
at which she had put it by. I, lying close beside her, within 


200 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


easy hand-reach, could see the book and the hand with the 
wedding-ring upon the finger; but her drooping face, as she 
seemed to look down upon me, was dark against the shining 
pallor of the sky. I rolled idly over, and possessing myself of 
the book, took the little ringed hand in mine, and to my ter- 
ror and astonishment, a large warm tear fell. 1 rose to my 
knees and asked what was the matter. I thought of that pos- 
sible coming parting, and could imagine nothing else as a cause 
for tears; but had that been a rjeason for her grief, the answer 
would have come easily, and here, for awhile, I could get no 
response at all. To find my poor little wife hugging me round 
the neck with both arms, and weeping in a sort of resolved de- 
spair, without being able at all to guess the ground of it, was 
pitiable and almost terrible. 

What is it, darling?'^ 

“ Oh, John! My poor, dear John! What will you do with- 
out me?^^ 

Without her? I had no thought or fear of being without 
her. What did it mean? I asked her over and over again, 
and for sole answer there were the clinging arms and silent 
tears, and now and again the little figure shaken by a sob. I 
insisted, I besought, 1 prayed her to be brave, and tell me 
everything. I cudgeled my brains in a troubled bewilderment 
for any reasonable explanation of the grief and fear with evi- 
dently beset her. At last she told me, crying more and more 
softly, with her arms about my neck and her flushed wet 
cheek pressed against mine, that she would not live long, and 
that it broke her heart to think of leaving me alone. 

!Not live long? She was in the very pride of health 
and strength. She had been a little odd and fanciful of 
late, unreasonably depressed at moments, gayer and brighter 
than usual sometimes, without apparent reason. But in dan- 
ger? I know that if there had been any solid fear, my heart, 
in its natural rebellion against the thought of severance, would 
have banished it to the latest moment. I could realize that 
certainty even then, but I saw no cause for alarm at all, and 
tried my tenderest best to laugh her out of this singular 
fancy. Finding that at least it was no fancy to her mind, I 
became aware of a vague terror. I am no more superstitious 
than the average run of men, but I remembered all manner of 
legends of fulfilled presentiment. 

I helped her into the house, and having bestowed her in an 
arm-chair and covered her with unnecessary wraps, I found 
Mary, and begging her to stay with my wife until my return, 
I ran off in haste for the nearest doctor. Happily for the end- 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 201 

ing of my anxiety, the nearest doctor chanced to be a man of 
liigh repute, and was at home. I told him the nature of my 
trouble, and he heard the narrative with an inhuman smiling 
calm, assumed his gloves and hat, and set out with me. He 
was closeted with his patient for the space of some five min- 
utes, at the end of which time he found me waiting feverishly 
in the hall. I drew him through the dining-room door, and 
questioned him. Was there any danger? Was it anything 
but a feminine fancy? 

“ My dear sir,^’ he responded, rubbing his hands and smil- 
ing, “it is a feminine fact. There is not the faintest cause 
for anxiety, but ladies in Mrs. Denham’s condition are liable 
to these attacks of despondency. You must do your best to 
keep her mind upon a level — a level, my good sir.” He de- 
scribed a level in the air with two white plump hands, stooping 
a little as he did so, as if to indicate that he would rather have 
the level a little low down than otherwise. “ Her present 
condition is everything that could be desired. Positively 
everything that could be desired. The one thing I should feel 
disposed to recommend would be that you should find for her, 
if possible, a discreet, calm-minded, experienqed, and affection- 
ate companion of her own sex.” 

I dashed instantly at the bell, and rang, not the mad peal I 
might have rung if I had not suddenly remembered myself, 
but a modest tinlde barely audible. 

“You know such a lady?” asked the doctor. “You are 
about to send for her?” 

“ Shejs in the house,” I answered. “ She is thinking of 
leaving us. My wife is most tenderly attached to her, and L 
traced her despondency to that cause. Pray persuade her to 
stay. You have only to tell her what you have said to me, 
and I know that she will not dream of leaving us.” 

The' maid entering the room at this instant, in answer to my 
summons, I sent a message to Miss Delamere, asking her to 
come for a minute to the dining-room. When she entered, 
her face brightened at the sight of the doctor, and the doctor’s 
face brightened at the sight of her. 

“ Sister Constance!” he said, in a tone of great pleasure. 
“ I think we have found a duty for you. I have just seen 
Mrs. Denham, who has been alarming her husband by a touch 
of low spirits and despondency, very natural in her present 
state. He tells me that this despondency is due to the fear of 
yonr. departure. How, a fixed despondency, my dear Sister 
Constance, is a danger in a case like this. We must avoid it 
if we can. ” 


202 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


As soon as the doctor paused I hastened to say that much as 
Clara and I had valued her companionship, we would be a 
hundred-fold more grateful for it now. I was so urgent, in 
my fear lest Clara’s mind should quit that level which the doc- 
tor seemed to think desirable for her, that she gave way at 
once. I thanked her with all my heart, and begged her with- 
out delay to tell Clara of the promise she had made. 

“That,” said the doctor, “will be her best medicine.” 
When Mary had gone, in obedience to my request, he added, 
with a queer kind of brusquerie which I understood better later 
on, “ I’m glad she’s left us, because I wanted to say a word 
about her. That woman, Mr. Denham,” laying an impress- 
ive hand upon my shoulder, “is an angel.” He seemed 
almost angry about it, and looked as if he would have liked 
me to contradict the statement, but I assented to it warmly. 
He lingered for a minute or two, while he drew on his gloves, 
to say that he had met her often in the pursuit of his profes- 
sional duties, and had formed a high opinion of her. “The 
loftiest, sir,” he said, “ the loftiest,” with the same tone of 
brusquerie and defiance. With this, he went away, staying 
only for a minute in the hall to tell me that 1 was not to 
trouble him again unless I saw actual need for it. 

I was not all surprised when Mary next morning expressed 
her delight at my having fallen upon Dr. Mason. 

“I think,” she said, “ he is the kindest-hearted creature in 
the world. People speak of him as one of the hardest- work- 
ing men in London, but he spends a third of his time in doc- 
toring patients who can not pay him a penny. ” 

There are many such men in the ranks of his profession. I 
remember when 1 got to know him intimately, as I did, telling 
him one day that doctors were the only people in the world 
who spent their lives in an earnest endeavor to leave them- 
selves nothing to do. He twinkled over this, and answered: 
‘ ‘ My dear sir, we are all engaged in providing work for gen- 
erations of our successors. We patch up the feeble.” I cor- 
nered him directly afterward, by asking whether, if a medical 
man found a means by which all disease and sickness could be 
ended, he would make his knowledge public. He thundered: 
“ By Heaven, yes, sir!” but added, “We can be quite easy 
on that head. Nobody will ever find it.” 

To get back to my story: Mary stayed, and was of infinite 
use and comfort, as wherever she went she seemed to be. 
She, at least, seemed to have found the level necessary to a 
tranquil mind. Her mood could rise sometimes to a gentle 
gayety, but if this had any corresponding depression, no one 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


203 


but herself was allowed to know of it. She went about the 
world in a placid, equable, sweet calm, not sad, and yet with 
a touch of sadness always in my contemplation of it. Clara 
recovered her usual courage and good spirits almost imme- 
diately with the certainty of not losing her companion, and 
though of course her despondencies came back again from time 
to time, she fought an easier battle with them than at first. 

Mrs. Grantley and her brother, who was a childless widower, 
were moving about Switzerland. We heard of them from 
Basel, from Zurich, from Thun, from Chamouni. There was 
no knowing at any given hioment where they might be. They 
followed no settled track or plan, but seemed to fiit wherever 
fancy led them. Clara^s letter, announcing the coming event, 
followed them about from place to place for a month; but 
when once it reached her, Mrs. Grantley came flying over with 
matronly solicitude, and in my own house I became a cipher. 
It is a fact in arithmetic that if you put any other figure be- 
fore a cipher that hitherto inexpressive sign takes an imme- 
diate value. In household affairs it is not so. I was the 
cipher, and every other figure in the house, if it were but 
clothed in petticoats, was before me. But I acquired no value 
from this circumstance. 

I heard all this while, at considerable intervals only, occa- 
sional news of Pole. He had been to the Piraeus and to Con- 
stantinople; thence he had wandered to the Crimea, to look at 
the fields over which the fancy of the whole world had hovered 
a few years before. His letters expressed but little of his feel- 
ing, but he woke up somewhat about Inkerman and the Alma, 
and the empty battered fortress of Sebastopol. Next I heard 
of him as being bent back for Paris, and in case all should go 
well at home I promised myself an early meeting with him 
there. Then a month went by without a word from him, six 
weeks, two months. 

I had kept up a friendly correspondence with Macllray, and 
it was from him that I heard my first news, after this pause, 
of the missing wanderer. It caused me a good deal of anxiety. 

“Your friend. Lord Worborough,^^ wrote Macllray, “is 
back this seven weeks in the capital of sin and foolishness. 
He is a bright, manly fellow, and unless I am a greater fool 
than I commonly am, he has plenty of natural, rational lights 
to guide him. But if half the stories that Paris is ringing 
with just now are true, he has cut the last tether of reason, 
and gone astray altogether. He has taken a hotel, and has 
set it up in a very grand fashion, and he has gathered about 
him the wickedest, cleverest crowd in all the city. He is not 


m 


THE WEAKEB VESSEL. 


the lad to go to the mischief with fools for his companions. 
His heart's in the right place still, I"m thinking, and I'll tell 
you a very characteristic thing of him, though I must not be 
held as expressing my approval of the expenditure of money so 
gotten in a holy cause. The facts of the case are these, and I 
have taken the pains to ascertain that they are facts before 
writing them. There's a certain blackguard here who's called 
the Marquis de St. Marci, who's no less than a fiend with the 
cards and dice and other such like tools of evil. He's a man of 
great wealth — as rich, they say, as^Lord Worborough himself. 
The two sat down together this night week, and played so high 
that Worborough won from the other body two hundred and 
seventy-five thousand francs. If you'll put this into English 
money you'll find that, bar the loss on the rate of exchange, 
its total is eleven thousand English pounds sterling. They 
played till noon, and then the marquis gave it up. Lord 
Worborough distributed the money among five Parisian char- 
ities next day. There's a saying in my part of the world that 
what's got over the devil's back is spent under his belly; and 
though I'm far from arguing, as I'm sure you know, that the 
money had better have been put to base uses, I have a feeling 
that it's out of accordance with the general fitness of things 
that a sum so acquired should be spent in such a fashion." 

I knew something of this Marquis de St. Marci, and was 
strongly of opinion that any money which found its way from 
his exchequer to that of a charitable organization had changed 
hands with advantage to the world at large. I was sorry to 
hear of him as being one of Pole's companions, but I could 
hardly believe that the connection was likely to last long or to * 
be familiar. Macllray's code of morals was of the strictest 
old-fashioned Scottish sort, and I knew so well that many 
things condoned by the world at large would seem wicked in 
his eyes, that I was able to make considerable deductions from 
his story of Pole's wildness. Ther news of this gambling feat 
of his disturbed me profoundly, however, though in my love 
for him and my knowledge of his circumstances I was quick to 
find excuses. The spoiled life, in which it was so easy for him 
to fancy that every avenue to happiness was closed, the great 
wealth suddenly acquired, the rebound of spirit and enterprise 
natural to his years, all made apology for him. I fancied him 
grown desperate, and seeking distraction from the emptiness 
of his own soul in these questionable ways. I found some 
comfort in the reflection that whithersoever his troubles might 
drive him he could never cease to be a gentleman, and an 
English gentleman to boot. The English gentleman's creed 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 205 

is sometimes a little heathen, but it saves him from a good 
many things which the creed of people otherwise bred and 
nurtured inspires no repulsion for. 

1 had my own anxieti^ and for a time at least they were 
urgent enough to driv§^efen Pole^s affairs from my mind; but 
in the end all went happily, and my establishment was in- 
creased in strength by one. The addition to the garrison was 
an addition to the majority, for the baby was a girl. She is 
now, unless my fatherly partiality deceives me, a very charm- 
ing and beautiful young woman, of the perter order of beauty. 
Having defended myself beforehand by this statement, I may 
be held excused for saying that 1 was disappointed, and even 
shocked, by her earliest aspect. I had been interested in most 
things which had come into my sphere of observation, but I 
had never before found any real and inviting opportunity of 
becoming interested in a baby. Her complexion struck me as 
being far too florid. I had doubts which were almost tragic 
as to the future of her nose. The darkling scowl she cast 
upon me at our first interview lingered on my memory for 
hours. I never dared to mention my misgivings, but the 
chorus of approval raised by the whole feminine contingent 
sounded in my ears like the hollowest of mockeries. I ex- 
amined, I criticised, I inquired within myself; faintly, I dared 
to hope. But, while grandmamma — the world, I think, never 
held a prouder, or one more conscious of her dignity — pro- 
claimed with sparkling eyes and heightened color that the 
baby was the living image of her mother, and when the 
mother, with a certainty of faith no doubt could have shaken, 
cried aloud her discovery in that terra-cotta colored scowl of a 
resemblance to me, I felt that both my wife and myself were 
humiliated and maligned. 

There are few things in the world which introduce them- 
selves with so little promise to the masculine mind as a baby. 
But is there anything else in the world which so quickly knits 
itself about the heart? I can give voice to my misgivings now 
without shame, because I know them to be common to my 
sex. At that time I hid them, because I honestly thought that 
I was a fiend among fathers, a creature denaturalized, and 
void of the insight of affection. 

The sister superior from that little, half-conventual estab- 
lishment off the Strand had been several times to see us. She 
came one special Saturday afternoon, when by rare hazard 
Mary was absent from her ordinary duties among the poor. 
Clara, a little fatigued by a mprning drive, had gone upstairs 
to rest, and Mary was nursing the younger Clara, by this time 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


2oe 

between two and three months old, when the sister superior 
was announced. I was looking on — I dare say with a very 
visible fatherly complacency; for by this time the terra-cotta 
complexion had changed to a delicate pinky white, and the 
scowl had given place to the most innocent and engaging ex- 
pression — when the motherly lady entered. Baby was crowing 
and gurgling in an inarticulate ecstasy about something or 
other which neither of us could understand, and Mary was 
bending over her like some mild Madonna in a picture, with a 
smile so tender and innocent and radiant that it fitly matched 
even the infantine beauty of the child. 

The motherly sister superior gurgled at the baby, and 
stooped to kiss it. When she raised her head she kissed the 
nurse, and putting a plump, withered hand on either cheek, 
looked at her affectianately, and said: 

This is your place, my dear.^^ 


CHAPTEE XXXI. 

Wheh the following August brought the second of my 
annual vacations, my whole household uprooted itself, grand- 
mamma, mother, and baby, with all their inevitable belong- 
ings, and started off for Switzerland. Clara and I had spent 
an infinity of argument on Mary, and had at length succeeded 
in persuading her to accompany us. In old days she had 
traveled a good deal with her father, but he had led her 
chiefly to those places which were of interest to himself, and 
she had never seen the Alps. It was one of the dreams of her 
life to see Mount Blanc, but she would have resisted our invi- 
tations to the last if we had not found an ally in Dr. Mason, 
who insisted that a holiday was necessary to her. On her 
visits among the poor she still wore her half-conventual garb, 
but she had long since set it aside for ordinary occasions. 

We made our first halt in Paris, and my wife naturally knew 
well enough that I meant to call upon Pole there. Neither 
she nor Mary made any allusion to him in my hearing, and 
when, on the day after our arrival, I set out from the hotel 
alone, no inquiries were made as to my proposed destination. 
We were staying at a hotel in the Eue de Eivoli, and 1 had 
but to cross the Place du Carrousel, to walk a couple of hun- 
dred yards to the right, and to cross the river to reach Pole’s 
residence on the Quai d'Orsay. I had written from London, 
telling him of the day on which 1 would call, and had expected 
him to be alone to receive me. I found him entertaining a 
dozen gentlemen at breakfast, but he jumped up from his seat 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


207 


at the head of the table when I was shown into the room, and 
came forward to meet me with a genuine friendly warmth. 
While his face was lighted up at the first sight of me, and for 
a moment or two afterward I did not notice the change which 
had come upon him. But when a seat had been found for me 
at the table, and he had settled down again, I had time to ob- 
serve him. There were no actual lines in his face, but, as it 
were, a preparation for them. His expression in silence was 
very mournful, and he looked tired, and, as I could not help 
thinking, cynical. He had always been a fair linguist since I 
had known him, and now, after his leugthy stay in Paris, he 
had achieved such an ease and elegance in Trench as English- 
men rarely attain to. Excepting hiihself, I was the only 
Englishman at the table, and I had known beforehand that 
he associated but little with his countrymen. 

The talk was wonderfully bright and light, with now and 
again a touch of seriousness in it, which, though it was never 
more than, momentary, served to give it a flavor of reason. 
The names of most of the guests were familiar to me, and 
were familiar to everybody who knew anything of art, letters, 
and politics in l.^aris. During my own brief journalistic so- 
journ there I had seen, on first nights of theatrical representa- 
tions, in famous studios, and in the parliamentary ranks in the 
Chamber of Ee presen tatives, most of the faces which sur- 
rounded me, and I was pleased to find myself one of an 
assembly so distinguished. 

The table was spread with a sumptuous refinement, the 
wines were something to remember, but the talk was the best 
part of the meal. It was self-conscious and wary, like the 
dangerous dexterities of a tumbler, but like those same dex- 
terities, it was graceful and assured, and looked so easy as to 
tempt one to the belief that one^s self could do it. It glanced 
and glittered, and posed, and everybody laughed at its pretty, 
daring, wayward ways; but keeping a watchful eye on my old 
friend, I could see that below his surface gayety there was a 
deep-rooted and constant sadness. He was as keen and ready 
as any of his guests, but his good things were biting, and at 
times almost savage. Several times in the course of the break- 
fast I heard one or other of his cronies allude to him as the 
pessimist, and that indeed seemed to be his accepted title. 

Breakfast over, we adjourned to an apartment in which the 
arrangement of the furniture struck me at first sight as being 
curious. The room was large and sumptuous, but from the 
center of it every article had been cleared away, with the ex- 
ception of a small table with a green-baize top, and a brace of 


208 


THE WEAKER VESSEL 


chairs, which stood one on either side of it. Other chairs there 
were in plenty, lounges, causeuses, and what not, but these 
were all drawn away, as if for the accommodation of a stand- 
ing gallery round tjhe little green-baize-topped table. Among 
the guests was one man, and one man only, whose face I mis 
liked. He was handsome, after a Mephistophelian, wicked 
fashion, but he was prematurely wrinkled and elderly, and 
looked altogether cruel, cunning and untrustworthy. 1 was 
not long in discovering that this personage was no other than 
the Marquis de St. Marci. I was not long in discovering either 
that the whole object of the gathering was to witness a match 
between the marquis and Lord Worborough at ecart6. Pole, 
it appeared, had been challenged to a game of three hours^ 
duration at stakes almost unheard of, and, since he had won 
heavily from his opponent, had accepted the defiance. 

Cigars and cigarettes were lighted, two men were appointed, 
one in the interest of each of the players, to mark the score, 
Pole and his opponent took their seats at the table, and the 
game began. I made my first acquaintance with ecarte that 
day, and have never followed up the introduction, so that I 
am unable to describe the play. I suppose it to have been 
very skillful on both sides, from the rapt eagerness with which 
it was watched by the little crowd about the table. There was 
a noble pendule upon the mantel-piece, with a bronze figure, 
half life-size, poised upon the top of it, and when two o’clock 
sounded the first deal was made. I did not like the proceed- 
ings at all, and, in point of fact, 1 felt a kind of inward pro- 
testing rage against them, but before the game had gone on 
for a quarter of an lioirr I was as passionately and eagerly ab- 
sorbed as any devotee at the shrine of chance there present. 
At first the run of lucb v/as all in Pole’s favor, but the mar- 
quis was as calm and cool as if he had been playing for far- 
things. Many of ibe nieii standing round had little note- 
books, in which they casi up the results of the game as it pro- 
gressed. They showed 1 iicse at intervals with shruggings of 
the shoulders, lifted eyebrows, and pale excited smiles to other 
men, who had kept no count. In a mere half hour the total 
of Pole’s winnings doubled my annual income from all sources. 

I do not know whether it is so with all men, but for myself, 
though 1 am not, nor ever have been anything of a gambler, 
there is an extraordinary fascination in lookmg on at games of 
mingled chance and skill. This particular encounter is his- 
torical in gaming circles, and, I suppose, it is no wonder that 
it excited me, even apart from my interest in one of the play- 
ers. When Pole had a reverse I trembled lest the whole 


200 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 

course of events should go against him; when he won 1 trem- 
bled with triumph, and between couf and couf I trem- 
bled with excitement. The players sat quiet, like a pair of 
fates, and were apparently the least moved and interested of 
all the people there. Only I began to notice a certain strained 
look about the eyes of Pole^s opponent. He had had a clear 
and rather hectic flush of color on the cheek when he sat down 
first at the table, and this flush of color spread gradually until 
the under and upper eyelid were charged with it. 

He called for new cards at the expiration of the first half 
hour, but they brought him no better fortune than the old. 
The game still went against him, and though every minute 
was filled and overfilled with interest, the plaintive voice of the 
pendule chiming three fell upon my ear long before it was ex- 
pected. Again the Marquis de St. Marci called for new cards, 
and still the run of luck went against him. I was beginning 
to pity him when it turned, and for a clear hour thenceforward 
he took everything before him, at such a pace that the posi- 
tions of the two began to be reversed, and Pole became a loser. 
When four o’clock sounded Pole was some twenty thousand 
francs to the bad, and after that the game fluctuated in brief 
rushes, each one of which, to my overstrained fancy, seemed 
likely to lead to final victory and defeat. It became evident 
at length that Pole was losing beyond all doubt. Allowing for 
the best possible good-fortune in the last half hour, he could 
not expect to make his losses good; and when five sounded 
and the game was over he rose the loser, in round money, of 
twelve thousand pounds. It appeared that he had prepared 
himself for this contingency, for he drew out a check-book and 
wrote a check for the amount before rising, and passed it over 
to the marquis, who accepted it with smiling thanks, and but- 
toned it up in his pocket-book. 

After this the little assembly of celebrities melted away with 
great rapidity, and in half an hour Pole and I were left to our- 
selves. He lighted a cigarette, and threw himself upon a sofa 
with a worn-out air. 

‘‘ It’s a pretty game,” he said, laughingly, “ but ecarte’s 
like life. No man can play against the cards. I began too 
well to go on well, and I knew at the end of the first half hour 
that I was bound to lose. Win first, lose last. That’s as true 
as anything can be in a world where everybody’s predictions 
are bound, more or less, to be falsified.” 

I have confessed alreMy that I had been carried away by 
my excitement over the game, and it is quite possible that if 
Pole's success had continued, my interest in it might have en- 


210 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


dured until the close; but during that last half hour in which 
he had been obviously doomed to failure I had found ample 
time to cool, and I had come back to common sense, even if, 
as often happens, I had taken a roundabout way to it. One 
takes the wrong way to common sense at times, and gets 
switched back to it in a surprising fashion. In point of fact, 
common sense lives in so many places that even the most 
errant of travelers can hardly avoid an occasional encounter 
with her. 

“ You look severe, John,^^ said Pole, raising himself on one 
elbow idly, and regarding me across the little cloud of smoke 
which had just left his lips. ‘‘ You disapprove of these things.^ 
You would rather see a man with my income and position en- 
gage his fortune in the amelioration of the world at large? 
Why, so would I; but then, you see,^^ he went on with an idle 
bitterness impossible to describe, ‘‘one develops, as philoso- 
phers are teaching us, in the direction where one encounters 
the least resistance. ^ * 

I was somewhat wearied by the excitement of the afternoon, 
and a little abashed inwardly by the memory of my own share 
in it, so that for a minute or two I found no heart to answer 
him. By the time I had recovered myself enough to know 
what my own honest and natural emotions really were, the 
time for an answer seemed to have gone by, and I kept silence, 
though many things occurred to me as being worth the trouble 
of saying. 

At the beginning of the play the sun had shone into the 
room so brightly that it had been found necessary to draw the 
curtains as a shield against it. Half-way through the game 
they had been partly retired again, and now a single &oad 
beam glared upon the pier-glass and its gold border, near the 
ceiling. The plaintive, silvery voice of the pendule chimed 
again, and the room seemed to sink into the shadow of the 
great house which stood at the west and to the rear. The last 
glow of broad day departed from the chamber, and Pole and I 
were left in a half twilight, which seemed the more obscure 
because of that lately vanished blaze. 

“ I canT see how,^^ he said, “ whether you look severe or 
not, but I suppose you feel severe.^’’ 

“ I feel sorry, I answered him. 

“That,"^ he responded, “is a little worse than feeling 
severe. a great deal rather that you didriT feel sorry 
about me. Jack. I think, all things considered, it might be 
happier for you and me if we missed each other altogether, 
and made up our minds to take dilferent ways.’^ 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


211 


I asked him if he thought it likely that we could forget each 
other if we lived ever so far apart, and, rising from the sofa 
he was lounging on, he crossed over and took a seat near me. 

I do not know that it is necessary at any time to analyze 
memories and emotions, but I know distinctly that his dim 
figure lounging across the room at me, with his hands in his 
pockets and his head thrown backward, the very manner in 
which he dropped into the chair he chose, and the attitude he 
took there, reminded me of a time when he and I had both 
supposed his troubles to be over. I do not think, calling to 
mind our whole career together, that at any moment in it I 
had loved him so well or pitied him so profoundly. We are 
bound nowadays to keep cool, arid to hide, even when we can 
not choke, our emotions, but if I had followed the instii>ct of 
my own heart al that moment I should have put my arms 
around him and have cried like a child or a woman. As it 
was I burst into an unreasonable anger. It was my only 
refuge from myself. But I think he understood me. 

‘‘You have no right, I said, “ to make this kind of thing 
the occupation of your life.^' 

“ Granted, he answered. “ So far as I can see, one has 
no right to anything. When the beaten mule has no pleasure 
left him but to kick over the traces, and when he always gets 
beaten for doing it by that angelic monitor which tries to 
govern mules — eh. Jack, isn^t it rather hard for him if his 
fellow-mule comes to bray reproach at him?^^ 

I understood it all,. and told him so. 

“It^s only the superior intelligence that understands,^^ he 
said. “ Don^t you think you’re a shade too young to be able 
honestly to take that tone with me?” 

I was silent at this, and sat in a sort of sick amazement at it. 

“ Don’t be angry. Jack,” he said, suddenly. “ There’s a 
kind of stuff that is purified by many fires. You can’t give it 
too many to burn the dross out of it. But there’s another 
kind of kuff that gets to be all dross if you burn it too long 
and too often.” We were quieffor a time, and then he asked 
me: “ Did you ever hear me growl till now? Look here. 
Jack,” he went on, “I’ve looked at it pretty often. What 
have I got to do? Go and take my seat in the House and 
make speeches and make a name? I’ve thought about it. 
Turn philanthLopic landlord and interest myself in the cause of 
the tenant farmer and the laborer? I’ve thought about that, 
too, and I think I make my people pretty easy. But Lady 
Worborough’s in the police court now and then, and I can’t 
show up. I have to hide myself, I have to sing small. I 


212 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


have to exile myself from my own country and the work I 
would do, if I had the chance to do it. 

Lady Worborough in the police court?^^ I cried. “ What 
do you mean?^^ 

‘‘ One comes from home to learn news of home/^ he an- 
swered, bitterly. ‘‘ You havenH heard?^' 

‘‘I have heard nothing,^’ I answered. “I have had no 
news of Lady Worborough for the greater part of a year.'’^ 

“ You read only the respectable journals, he responded? 
“You don^t know the ‘Flag of Liberty,' the palladium of 
the people, the weekly sheet which proclaims to its own public 
that everybody with a handle to his name is a scoundrel by 
rule of Magna Charta. I have the advantage of reading an 
occasional column about her ladyship and myself. The indig- 
nant writer demonstrates the fact that I am a personage of the 
basest extraction, and therefore have a right to be virtuous; 
but he shows also that I am a lord, and by accretion of title 
and income, vicious. He proves the same things of her lady- 
ship, and is eloquent about the closing phrase of the police re- 
ports, ‘ The fine was paid. ' I have a round dozen of printed 
documents upstairs. ITl show them to you, if you care to see 
them. I owe them to some anonymous friend of mine, who 
sends them to me by the earliest post, and sometimes writes 
beforehand to advise me that they are coming." 

He might, by the sound of his voice, have been talking about 
the most indifferent theme in the world. Finding that I an- 
swered nothing, he arose and strolled out of the room, return- 
ing after a brief absence with what turned out to be a pocket- 
book in his hand. He threw this upon the table, and told me 
that if I wanted intelligence of Lady Worborough it was there 
in plenty. He drew the curtains wide apart, and the room 
was light again. I took the pocket-book from the table and 
glanced at its contents — scraps of newspapers of different dates. 
The merest look was enough, and I returned them. 

When you know that a man is as thoroughly persuaded of 
the folly of his own course as you yourself can be, it is of little 
use to argue with him. 1 bethought me of Pole's declaration 
about the trust in which he held his fortune; but I was certain 
that he also remembered it, and it would have been gratuitous- 
ly stupid to remind him of it. 

“ Since I had to pass through Paris," 1 said, lamely, “ I 
couldn't help looking you up." 

“ Noj^' he said; “ I expected you to call." 

There was a change in both of us since the hearty reception 
at midday; but 1 knew that my own cold unhappiness grew 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 213 

Out of the change in him, and that my presence at the spectacle 
of his extravagant gambling was answerable for that. 

“ We are going on to Brussels to-morrow, I said. “ Clara 
wants to make a flying call upon some friends there. 1 sup- 
pose we shall see no more of each other for awhile 

“ No,^^ he answered, “ 1 suppose not. Are you alone, you 
two?^^ 

I told him that Miss Delamere was with us, and Mrs. Grant- 
ley. 

“ Ah, well,^ he said, that ends it;’^ as if he had had some 
thought of joining us until he knew of Mary^s presence. 

I said something about having to get back in time for din- 
ner, and added that my absence would already be wondered at. 
We shook hands as though we were the most commonplace of 
acquaintances, and he descended into the hall with me. We 
repeated our good-byes there, and I went away as unhappy as 
I can remember to have been at any time. No comment was 
made by any member of our party upon my absence. We 
dined at the taUe dhote, amid a loud chatter of talk and the 
wild rushes of overworked waiters, and there was bustle and 
noise enough to distract attention from me. To have sat out 
a quiet dinner without my forced hilarity and frequent depres- 
sion being noticed would have been impossible, but in this 
scene of noise and animation I escaped. The ladies had been 
sight-seeing in my absence, and were all a little tired. I was 
glad to get away from them, and sauntering in the fast-grow- 
ing darkness under the shade of the trees in the Champs 
Elysees I thought over the day^s experience. Over and over 
again I made' up my mind to go back to Pole and speak my 
heart out to him, but the purpose always failed me. 

When it had grown quite dark I made my way back to the 
hotel, and as 1 emerged from the broad promenade into the 
street I became aware of a solitary somber figure standing 
there. It moved on as 1 approached, and I recognized Pole ’s 
step and carriage. The street was very quiet. In the rear 
the innumerable lamps of the Place de la Concorde, themselves 
invisible, made a yellow haze upon the darkness, and the long, 
single line of lights upon the streets twinkled away into the 
distance with a diminishing brightness. Pole walked on and 
I followed, half resolving at almost every footstep to accost 
him. He took no note of my footsteps behind him, and I 
gradually allowed myself to fall further and further in the 
rear. I saw him pause opposite the hotel and look up at its 
windows. He raised his hat and stood bareheaded for an in- 
stant, and then moved on again. I walked after him until he 


THE WEAKEK VESSEL. 


m 

had passed the hotel by a hundred yards, when he turned, and 
we encountered each other. He was going by without recog- 
nizing me, but I hailed him. 

“ That you, Jack!"^ he said, in a different voice from that 
in which he had last addressed me. He passed his arm through 
mine, and we walked for a considerable distance without speak- 
ing. My heart was so hot with friendship, and so sore and 
tender with regrets, that I could not trust myself to speak. 
He led me back to the Champs Elysees, where the moon, 
which was late in rising, had just begun to make an uncertain 
glory in the sky. 

“ Tell .me about Mary,^'’ he said, suddenly. “ How is she? 
What does she do? Is she happy, or contented? Tell me all 
about her. 

There was not much to tell in the story of that life of silent 
heroism, self-conquest, and self-denial, and what little there 
was I told badly, being indeed afraid to trust myself too far. 

I believe, he said, simply, that she cared for me as 
much as ever a woman cared for a man in this world. Heaven 
knows I was never worth it, but then a man’s worthiness has 
nothing to do with such a matter. There isn’t a trouble I 
have that she doesn’t share, and she has enough and to spare 
of her own. They’re better than we are. Jack. They’re 
stronger, and purer, and more patient.” 

Finding him in this changed and softened mood, 1 opened 
out my heart to him. There is no. need to try to repeat here 
what I said to him. I had no right to preach, but every man, 
however weak he knows himself to be, has the right to hold 
cut a hand of help and fellowship. 

“ You’re right. Jack,” he said. “ Say no more about it. 
Paris is no place for me, and mine for this year past has been 
no life for an honest man to lead. I have known it all along. 
I shall get away to-morrow. I don’t know yet where I shall 
go or what I shall do, but I’ll try to find something worth do- 
ing, and I’ll try to do it. Good-night, Denham. Don’t come 
any further with me just now. Good-bye, and God bless 
you.” 

We parted there, and I watched him as he walked away in 
the gathering moonlight until he was hidden in the shadows of 
the avenue. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

Except for the fact that it led to my encounter with Pole, 
the family trip to Switzerland would have found no place in 


THE WEAKEK VESSEL. Z15 

this history. It was enjoyed and left behind, and late in the 
autumn we all came home again, every one of us brimming 
over with health and energy, from grandmamma to baby. We 
settled down into our accustomed courses in a day or two. 
My valuable services not being required again by the country 
until Parliament met, I devoted myself to my literary work. 
Mrs. Grantley took friendly leave of us, and went back to 
Grantley Holme and her brother the major, Clara settled down 
to the superintendence of the household, and Mary resumed 
her suspended labors among the poor. She would, as I learned 
from Clara, have abandoned her distinguishing dress alto- 
gether, but for the fact that the people among whom she 
labored had grown accustomed to it, and to part with it would 
have been to invite curiosity. 

My own inquiries had so long led me to a tolerably close 
acquaintance with the class among whom she labored that it 
was out of no curiosity with respect to their condition that I 
sometimes availed myself of an unoccupied hour to accompany 
her upon her rounds. I had an idea when I first offered her 
my companionship, that it would be pleasant to see how she 
dealt with the people, and I certainly found that idea verified. 
It was pleasant to see how that mild presence brought comfort 
to the sick and troubled, and to witness the unfailing respect 
with which the roughest blackguards of her quarter greeted 
her. I had a talk with one gentleman, I remember, who was 
the terror of Green Hill Lane, a rather difficult neighborhood 
for any single individual to be a terror to. What this gentle- 
man did for a living during the limited periods for which he 
kept out of jail I am unable to say, but he took a pride in 
dressing like one of the old-fashioned tribe of coal-heavers, in 
shorts, high-lows, and gray worsted stockings. He was sun- 
ning his ponderous calves on a doorstep, and smoking a short 
clay there one afternoon when Mary and I came upon him 
together. He was a sulky, ill-conditioned-looking fellow, but 
he gave her an actual smile of welcome as he got up to make 
way for her to enter the house. 

“You again, mum?^^ he said, with gruff civility. “I 
thought we’d seen the last of you, mum.” Mary answered 
that she had been away for her health. “ I ’ope you’ve got 
it, mum,” he said. “You are a-lookin’ better than you 
was. ” 

She thanked him, and passed within doors, and I, waiting 
for her in the street, tried to enter into converse with her 
acquaintance. He received my advances with marked distrust, 
and resuming his pipe, sat down again upon the doorstep, and 


216 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


smoked with an obviously contemptuous disregard of my pres- 
ence. When I endeavored, in spite of this unpromising begin- 
ning, to continue the conversation, he looked up at me surlily. 

“Look ^ere,^’ he said. “Who are you? What are you? 
What are you drivin^ at? Who are you tryin^ to get at? 1 
didn^t address my conversation to you, did I? What do you 
want to address your conversation to me for?^^ 

I told him I did not like this pride and stand-offishness be- 
tween man and man, and added that if a duke were to speak 
to me I should try to treat him civilly. 

“ That^s a noo lay,^^ said my new acquaintance. “ Any- 
thing does as long as you can edge the patter in, don^t it, 
guv^nor? Just get a start, so as a cove can^t stop you, then 
you can sling it in to your hearths content, can^t you? What^s 
the line? Is it gospel, or teetotal, or the papers? I knows 
^em. Don’t you talk to me. I can get as much o’ your kind 
o’ chin-music as I wants when I’m in quod. ” 

“ Do you care to know what my lay is?” I asked him. 

“ No, guv’nor,” he responded. “ If you puts it plain, I 
don’t.” 

“ Come,” I urged, “ you didn’t treat the lady in this way.” 

“ No,” he said, dexterously expectorating without removing 
his pipe from his lips, “ I didn% guv’nor. But you see you 
ain’t a lady. And if you was, it’s about a hundred million to 
one as I shouldn’t.” 

“ You wouldn’t treat me in that way if 1 were a lady?” I 
asked him. “ Why not?” 

“ ’Cos,” he answered, as sulkily as ever, “ it ’d be a thou- 
sand million to one as you wouldn’t be a patch on her. When 
I meets a lady as knows how to be a lady, why then I takes my 
’at off to her like a man. Why not? Do you think a cove 
can’t tell a lady when he sees her? There’s plenty of ’em 
comes round here a-pickin’ up their petticoats, steppin’ fine, 
and talkin’ thin and pretty. Ladies? Ladies be blowed! I 
knows ’em when I sees ’em. Don’t you talk to me. ” 

After this, he subsided to a bull-dog silence. I always made 
a point of carrying a well-stocked tobacco-pouch with me upon 
this sort of journey. I produced it now, and held it out to 
him with a' request that he would help himself. 

“ I don’t ask,” he observed, “ for no man’s charity. I can 
always buy as much backy as I wants, and if I couldn’t I should 
nick it. ” 

When Mary emerged from the house, this uncompromising 
personage seemed abashed in the memory of his former polite- 
ness, and merely growled, “ Good-arternoon, mum,” as he 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


217 


stood aside to let her pass. I told her as we went along to- 
gether of the testimonial to her ladyhood which I had just re- 
ceived. She seemed rather pained than pleased by it, and she 
told me that there were some obviously well-intentioned people 
visiting in the neighborhood, who spent both time and money 
in the service of the poor, but, she added, 1 could hardly im- 
agine how little tact they had. 

‘‘If you want to get near these people, she said, “you 
must not remember such a thing as social difference. You 
must forget that it exists. If you only pretend to forget, they 
are very quick and keen to find you out. But if you really 
forget it they are at ease at once, though they never for an in- 
stant forget it themselves. I am afraid that you may think I 
am growing democratic, but I really think there are as nice 
people here as one meets elsewhere. Their manners and their 
ways of speech are not ours, but apart from those things, 
which matter a good deal, of course, there are some real ladies 
and gentlemen here. 

One hears this sort of statement made in pure cant some- 
times, by people who do not in the slightest little degree be- 
lieve it in their hearts, ^t Mary did l^elieve it, and I suppose 
that her belief afforded one of the truest reasons for her suc- 
cess. 

“ There are some among them,^^ she went on, “ who have 
really been ladies and gentlemen. A good many, of course, 
are pretenders, and exaggerate the better times they have seen, 
but some have really fallen from complete respectability. 

As, she talked thus, we passed by a noisome well of a court, 
where a group of women were loudly discussing some topic of 
general interest. I caught the voluble, shrill rattle of an 
Italian voice, and one woman, with her hands waving high in 
the air, was screaming, “ Mais, madame, je vous jure/^' as we 
went by. This court was the sorrowfulest part of G-reen Hill 
Lane, though the whole thoroughfare was sorrowful enough. 
The fronts of its houses seemed to have known no cleansing 
or renovating touch since the hour of their erection. From 
the pavement to the sills of the shop-windows the walls were 
caked with the mud which had been splashed upon them by 
the feet of generations of wayfarers. The paint of the wood- 
work was smothered with bubbles like a sort of sea-weed, and 
the window-panes were incrusted with the residuum of hun- 
dreds of fogs, and smeared with the rain of uncounted storms. 
The houses huddled together from one end of the lane to the 
other without a single break on either side, except the one 
made by that noisome well of a court, and the lane was so nar- 


m 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


row that a single hackney-carriage would have filled it from 
curb to curb. The inhabitants of the lane did at home what 
little washing they had to do, and the windows of the wretched 
houses were always garnished by vandyked rags of dingy 
white, as if in satire of festivity, or as if the King of Poverty's 
Miseries were coming that way on a ghastly gala day, and his 
subjects were in readiness to receive him. 

We were perhaps twenty yards beyond the court when a 
slipshod footstep sounded behind us, and a shrill voice cried 
out, “ iSoeur, sceur, ma Mary and 1 turned at this 

call together, and I. recognized the French woman who had 
been exclaiming in the court. 

“You speak French, my sister?^ ^ said the woman. Mary 
answered in the affirmative, and she poured out a story so 
voluble and in so marked a southern accent, half patois and 
half French, that it was almost impossible to follow her. We- 
made out enough to know that somebody was, in urgent need 
of help, and we turned round with the woman at once, and 
accompanied her into the 'court, she talking all the while with 
a passionate, voluble eloquence only half comprehensible. At 
a sign from Mary I remained in the court, while she entered 
at a low-browed doo/, and disappeared. A little Italian man 
on crutches, with a dark, wrinkled, wizened visage like that 
of a preternaturally wise and amiable ape, clattered across the 
broken pavement of the court, and opened fire upon me in his 
own language. He had talked for a minute before I could 
make him understand that I spoke no Italian; but addressing 
him in French, I discovered that he had a fair mastery of that 
language, and asked him to speak in it. 

He went on, more slowly, but with an eagerness which made 
him stumble at every phrase. Let monsieur figure it to him- 
self then, that a person so exalted should thus have fallen. 
There are those who would not believe, though the skies fall 
about them. They would have the birds in their fingers, and 
would not believe that the skies had fallen. But, for himself, 
he had traveled the world. He had been here, there, and 
everywhere. Monsieur might not credit, finding him in sur- 
roundings so degraded, yet monsieur was obviously a gentle- 
man, and had perhaps traveled and made himself acquainted 
with the reverses of fortune. He, the crutch-supported crip- 
ple, had once been a concierge in an hotel at Naples. He knew 
the world. He could tell a gentleman when he saw him, and 
a lady — gran Dio, a lady! — who that had once had the habi- 
tude to behold ladies of the great world could doubt when he 
beheld one? Monsieur had, without doubt, remarked the pi*ide 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


219 


in their faces. ^ What right had the poor with pride? The 
great and the rich were born to it. When once he had found 
the person between these two eyes — very bright and piercing 
and eloquent eyes they were — he had heard a voice within him 
which had said, behold no vulgar person! In his own land, 
the thing was impossible, because the cause was impossible. 

I arrested this voluble old Italian, and offered him leading 
questions. There was a lady here, a lady, heavens, yes! a 
lady. The blind and foolish derided her claim, and people 
made a scoff of her, and pointed at her, and hooted after her 
because of it. Who was she? He could not tell. These 
foreign names were so long and so rough. The tongue stii 
ened and the teeth flew before they could be spoken. What 
was she doing here? Doing here? Great heaven! she was 
dying here. Dying, of hunger, of want of medicines. The 
hospitals had rejected her, professing that she was cured. 

1 was standing with my back half-turned to the door-way by 
which Mary had entered, when the crippled old Italian stopped 
short in his swift, stammering speech, and stared across my 
shoulder. Before I could turn, his crutches and the withered 
legs they helped were skimming over the broken pavement. I 
swung round in some amaze at this, and there, in sudden ter- 
ror, I saw Mary, with one hand feebly clutching at the door- 
jamb, her face as colorless as the bands of white which sur- 
rounded it, and her flgure half-supported by the woman who 
had but a moment before summoned us from the street. I 
ran forward swiftly, and relieved the woman of her burden. 

What is it?’^ I asked. “ What is the matter?^^ 

She wrung her hands together, and made a little incoherent 
moaning noise, before she turned upon me. I was as unsus- 
picious then of the staring truth as I had been an hour before. 
‘‘ You are ill,^'’ I said. ‘‘ Let me help you into the air.^^ 

I half assisted, half carried her into the court, and one of 
the women brought a rickety chair, and another a cracked 
tea-cup of water. I helped her to the seat, and held the cup to 
her lips. She drank a little of the water, and was revived by 
it. She made an effort to rise, but I checked her, and she 
kept her place. Her gray eyes, looking extraordinarily large 
and dark, met mine, and I saw that tliey were full of pain and 
trouble. She made a great effort to collect herself. 

“ Get first, she said, “ some extract of beef, and a bottle 
of wine. Take the first turning to the right that vvay, and 
you will find a street of decent shops. Bring the things back 
at once, and then go for a doctor. Oh, pray don’t wait to 
think of me. I was shocked for the moment, but I am well 


220 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


again. Pray go! go at once! You see I am well. There is 
no need to stay here. 

I could only suppose that some one was hovering between 
life and death, and had instant need of support and stimulus. 
I tore out of the court, ran the length of the lane in the direc- 
tion she had indicated, and searching up and down, came upon 
an Italian warehouse, where 1 bought a tin of beef extract, and 
a grocer, from whom 1 bought a bottle of port. I ran back 
with these, and found that Mary had already re-entered the 
house. The French woman who had accosted us in the street 
took the things from my hands, and rushed upstairs with 
them, returning almost immediately with instructions to me to 
find a doctor. I hurried back into the street, and by good hap 
finding a cab there, drove at once in pursuit of Dr. Mason. 
He was not at home, but the servant who answered my sum- 
mons at the door was able to tell me where to intercept him, 
and ten minutes later we were driving back together. 1 was 
considerably disquieted about Mary, and told the doctor that 
he might expect to have more patients than one. The French 
woman was eagerly waiting for us when we arrived, and began 
to rain down blessings on the doctor, who, as I then discovered, 
was already known in that quarter. The two ascended to- 
gether, and I was left alone once more, this time for the space 
of some ten minutes. Then the doctor came down alone. 

“ Miss Delamere is all right again, he said, and you need 
have no fear about her. She seems, however, to have made a 
very extraordinary discovery, and she wants you to go upstairs 
and verify it. You Ye not easily shocked yourself, are you? 
Wait a bit; lYl tell you the story. There is a woman upstairs 
suffering from spinal paralysis. She was knocked down by a 
cab in the street some two months ago, and was taken to St. 
Bartholomew's Hospital.- She stayed there a week or two, and 
was then dismissed as cured. Since then she has been very 
queer at times, and now, for nearly a week, nobody has seen 
her until an hour ago. Then her fellow-lodgers, breaking into 
her room, find her almost dead. The lower extremities are 
useless, and want of sustenance has so far prostrated her that 
another day might have done her business. You're a personal 
friend of Worborough's, and that's the reason why I take the 
trouble to prepare you. She claims to be Lady Worborough. " 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

I WALKED Up and down the court for an hour after Dr. 
Mason's departure, an object of interest to all the boyhood of 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


221 


the neighborhood, and all the slatternly little girls who nursed 
babies.^ These thronged the narrow entrance of the court, 
scattermg with screams whenever I walked toward them, and 
gathering compactly together again whenever I walked away, 
until at last long immunity gave them courage, and they stood 
in rapt wonder at the apparition of gloves, a new hat, and 
clean linen in that unexpected quarter. Mary appeared in the 
door- way, and I hastened to meet her. To a casual and un- 
observant eye there would have been no sign of excitement in 
her aspect, but I who knew what strange reason she had for 
amazement and emotion could see that she had not yet re- 
covered. 

‘‘Have these people, she asked, “or has the. doctor told 
you anything of the sick woman^s identity?^^ I answered with 
a mere motion of the head. “ She is asleep, Mary continued, 
in a half whisper, as if there had been already need for cau- 
tion. “ You may see her. You will know her.^^'’ I signified 
assent again. “ Come this way. Tread softly. 

The air in the court itself was foul and heavy, but it was 
free and pure by comparison with that which crawled about 
the staircase. The gloom there seemed a natural part of the 
air^s weight and closeness. The wretched stair creaked and 
complained beneath our footsteps. We mounted to the third 
story, and there Mary slowly pushed open a door which jarred 
and shrieked upon its hinges in spite of all her caution, and 
motioned me to enter. I went in on tiptoe, and took in the 
squalor of the chamber at a glance, the smoky time-stained 
walls, green in places with some by-gone Winters’s rains, the 
cracked, uneven fioor, the broken plaster of the ceiling, where 
the bare laths showed like a desert map of unknown countries; 
the single window, with a shattered pane stuffed with rags, the 
grate, with the dead ashes of an old fire in it. There was no 
bed in the room, but on the fioor a huddled heap of sacking, 
with wood shavings thickly spread below it. A cloak that had 
once been elegant covered the form of . a woman sleeping on 
this miserable couch. , The face was hidden, but a mass of dis- 
orderly black hair streamed across the impoverished coverlet, 
with a small ear shining in ghastly and exaggerated whiteness 
among its disordered coils. Between the couch and the door 
was a small table, drawn a little to one side, so that it did not 
intercept the view. I advanced, still on tiptoe, and laying my 
hands on this, bent forward, and surveyed the sleeping wom- 
all^s face. It was strangely changed from the face I had seen 
when I had last parted from her, but I knew it instantly. By 
what wild recklessness or what disaster she had so far stripped 


222 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


herself of the means of livelihood as to have fallen to such a 
refuge as this in so short a space of time I could not guess, but 
there was no doubt as to her identity. 

Once assured, I turned away, and cautiously retraced my 
steps. Mary stood in the half gloom of the landing, and when 
she saw me her eyes asked a question. Mine answered it, and 
with a swift and nervous gesture she took both my hands, and 
held them tightly. 

“You are sure?^^ she whispered. 

“ Sure,’^ I whispered back again. 

She motioned me down-stairs, and I obeyed her, she follow- 
ing in my footsteps. Half-way down she laid a hand upon my 
shoulder and arrested me. 

“ I must not leave her,^^ she said. “ I must not leave her 
for a moment. She is so nearly exhausted that nothing but 
the most constant care can save her. Tell Clara that I shall 
not be able to get home to-night. 

She spoke even now in a guarded tone, and I instinctively 
answered her in the same fashion. 

“You must have help,^^ I said. “You must not be 
allowed to wear yourself away. I shall call at the nurses^ in- 
stitute, and send you an assistant. Then when your relief 
arrives, you must come home.^^ 

“ I do not think, she answered, “that I shall dare to 
leave her, for a time. You forget: I have had experience 
lately. I shall be glad of assistance. It was thoughtful, and 
like you, to think about it. Go now, and be sure that Clara 
is not alarmed. 

I was half-way down the remainder of the stairs when 1 
heard the rustle of her dress again behind me. When I turned 
I could see dimly a pained and confused look upon her face, 
and I fancied she was blushing, though I was uncertain in the 
gloom. 

“ I have no money, John. Things will be wanted. Lord 
Worborough will repay you. 

So far as I knew, that was the only mention of his name she 
had made since she had learned of my discovery of Pole’s wife 
in Paris. I gave her my purse, and told her to spare nothing 
that was needful, and she went upstairs again. For an in- 
stant, before the first turning took her out of sight, her beau- 
tiful pale face hung in the gloom like the pictured head of a 
saint. The black robe melted into the surrounding shadows, 
and only the face, with the band of white across the forehead, 
was half visible. Then this floated away, and I went down the 
steps and out of the court alone. 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


22S 


It had never entered my mind to believe that the miserable 
woman I had just left behind would have pushed her resolu- 
tion not to accept the allowance her husband offered her to 
such a point as this. I had supposed, as almost anybody 
would have done in my place, that we had but to wait until 
she felt the first touch of necessity, to receive her capitulation 
in form. We knew perfectly well that her desire for venge- 
ance on Pole weighed far more heavily with her than any sense 
that she was being defrauded of her rights. At the time of 
her marriage with Pole, if she had ever contemplated a separa- 
tion from fim, a fifth part of the income 1 had offered injier 
husband^’s behalf would have seemed an actually munificent 
allowance. 

I wondered how Pole would take the news of this victorious 
obstinacy, and on my way homeward 1 called at a telegraph 
station and sent off two dispatches, each addressed to him, the 
one through his steward, and the other through his solicitor, 
requesting his immediate presence in London. I had just loose 
silver enough to pay for the messages. It was quite uncertain 
when I should hear from Pole, for he had closed his house in 
Paris, and was wandering again, I knew not where. ^ It might 
even be weeks before he would communicate with either of his 
men of business, and it was possible that even the most serious 
events might happen without his knowledge. It is curious to 
notice how even in oner’s thoughts one shrinks from the actual 
confession of certain things. I know now, and I knew then, 
that the most serious events meant nothing more or less than 
the one great serious event of all. Brought face to face with 
a problem which happily but few people can ever have to look 
at seriously, I felt a something strange and dreadful in the 
sense that it was the bounden duty of every creature concerned 
to strain every intelligence and every effort to conserve a life 
which cursed its owner and spread a blight on all who knew 
her. Not the best loved, not the most useful and most highly 
honored, not the very center of benevolence and wisdom, 
would lay a greater claim upon skill, patience, tenderness, 
than this self-scorning center of unhappiness. The very knowl- 
edge of her own poor deserving would have to be a spur to 
conscience, lest there should be even an inward self-accusing 

whisper of neglect. ^ i • n 

Clara was disturbed by the news I had to give her, chieiiy 
on Mary's account. 

“ I know what will happen," she said. She will take this 
as a case of conscience, a thousand times more even than any 
other, and if she is not taken care of she will watch herself to 


224 : 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


death. Where is this place, John? You must find a profes- 
sional nurse and get Mary away. 

This reminded me of my own undertaking, and I told Clara 
of it. 

See to it at once,^^ she said. “You will find a nurse im- 
mediately. Take her with you in a cab, and bring Mary back 
with you. 

It was easy to give orders in this impetuous manner. “But 
what,-’^ I asked, “ if Mary will not come?^^ 

“ Tell her,’ ^ Clara answered, “that I myself will go and 
compel her to come home and take her natural night’s rest. I 
know, John, it’s very angelic, but it isn’t common sense. I’m 
not going to have the life of that darling girl, who sweetens 
the world for everybody who knows her, thrown away, or even 
risked, for a worthless creature who only lives to make herself 
and other people miserable. If the poor woman is in such a 
den as you describe, we must take her out of it as soon as the 
doctor will allow her to be moved. If more than one nurse is 
necessary we must get more than one, and if it’s safe to go, 
Mary can superintend them. Anything more than that I will 
not listen to.” 

“ My dear,” I ventured to respond, “ you are the very 
genius of good sense,” 

“ Don’t be sarcastic, John,” she answered. “ I am sure I 
am right. Go at once and find a nurse, and take her with 
you. And above all, don’t fail to bring Mary back again. 
Tell her that if she refuses I will come and stay with her. 
Tell her that you can’t stop me — you know you can’t stop me, 
John — and that you will hold her responsible. She knows 
how delicate I am.” 

Thus armed, I borrowed money from my wife, and set out 
again. Dr. Mi^son gave me the address of an institute for 
nurses, where I was almost certain immediately to find a 
trained and trustworthy woman. I drove thither, without 
delay, was introduced to the presence of the matron, explained 
to her as far as was necessary the circumstances of the case, 
and in a quarter of an hour was bowling away toward Green 
Hill Court, in company with a professional nurse, so boun- 
teously proportioned that she nearly filled the cab. She was a 
calm-looking woman of obviously amiable temperament, and 
had a mother-of-a-family air about her which was eminently 
assuring. When we arrived at the court together, and I had 
paid the cabman, I caught her looking at her surroundings, 
with an air of surprise and almost of dismay, so that I felt 
constrained to take her partly into confidence. 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 225 

The poor lady who lives here/' 1 said, has been in hid- 
ing from her friends. She was discovered by a providential 
accident this afternoon, and we shall remove her as soon as the 
doctor thing's it safe to do so." 

“ Well, sir," she answered, with an air of philosophy, the 
greater the need, the better the deed. It looks needy ei^iough 
hereabouts. " 

With that she seized a small black portmanteau with which 
she had come provided, and waddled resolutely into the court 
and up the stairway. It was pitch dark there by this time, 
though it was still light outside, and I had to illuminate the 
way by striking wax vestas one after the other, so that we had 
two pauses on our upward passage. The light revealed the 
excessive squalor of the building. The stairs were incrusted 
with old filth, and the painted walls were deep in a sort of 
half -dry mire which came off, friable and clammy, at the 
touch of the fingers. The cracked door, ill-fitting and warped 
from its original shape, guided us by a score of glittering crev- 
ices to the room we sought, and it was somewhat surprising to 
find, when I had knocked and we had been called upon to 
enter, that this brilliant illumination proceeded from a single 
candle. One would have thought, from the intensity with 
which the light streamed out upon the darkness through the 
cracks and crevices of the door that the whole chamber was 
alive with light. As we entered Mary rose with her finger on 
her lips, and recognizing me with a glance of some astonish- 
ment, looked inquiringly at my companion. I advanced 
stealthily, and the nurse, in spite of her ponderous propor- 
tions, slid upon the crazy floor like a list-slippered silence. 

1 have found a nurse," I whispered, “ who will take your 
place. Clara insists upon your coming home at once, and de- 
clares that if you will not do so, she will share your watch. 
You know what a resolute young person she is, and you know 
that she will keep her word. " 

The nurse had already, with a systematic air, taken off her 
tidy bonnet and handsome mantle which was ornamented by 
a profusion of black glass beads, had laid them neatly on the 
table, and now slid into the chair which- had been occupied by 
Mary before our entrance. She took the black portmanteau 
upon her knees, opened it by a spring, and, drawing from its 
depths a roll of worsted stocking with knitting-needles thrust 
through it, set the portmanteau on the floor again, and began 
at once to knit, with a silence and rapidity astonishing to con- 
template. She had not been there a minute, and contrived to 
look as if she had been born and lived there. 

8 


226 THE WEAKEE‘ VESSEL. 

Doctor Mason/' said Mary, speaking in the same careful 
tones 1 myself had used, “ promised to bring a local practi- 
tioner to watch the case, and said that he would be here to 
meet him at nine o'clock. I must stay till then. 

“ You will come away then?" I asked. 

Qertainly," she answered. “ I will come away then." 

The nurse, hearing this conversation, rose from the place 
she had assumed, but there was no other chair in the chamber, 
and 1 had to stumble down-stairs in search of one. 

‘‘ And now," said Mary, go home and tell Olara that she 
need have no anxiety on my account. When we have Doctor 
Mason's further instructions nurse will know what is to-be 
done, and 1 will leave at once. " 

“ I will be here at nine o'clock," 1 answered. If the doc- 
tor will allow it, we will move her in the morning to some de- 
cent place where she can have good air and quiet."' 

The rickety place swarmed with life and noises. 

“ Are you quite fresh and strong, nurse?" Mary asked the 
comfortable woman at her side. “ It will not be pleasant 
watching here. Do you think we might get an arm-chair for 
the nurse, John?" 

1 answered “ Certainly," and set out in pursuit of that nec- 
essary. '1 found it in the neighboring street, a great, roomy, 
cushioned thing, fit for the nurse's generous proportions, and 
modestly priced at seven and sixpence. ’ I came back again, 
bearing this trophy in my arms at considerable inconvenience; 
but I excited no man's attention, or woman's either, and it 
would have seemed as if it were not at all a startling or un- 
usual thing in that neighborhood to find a man cumbrously 
embracing his household goods in the public thoroughfare. 

This duty discharged, I had still ample time to search for a 
new hansom, drive home v/ith the news of Mary's consent to 
Clara, snatch a hurried apology for dinner, and get back to 
Green Hill Court by nine o'clock. Dr. Mason had arrived a 
moment before me, and what with the certainty that the sick 
woman's apparently wild stories of herseK were true, and with 
the advent of so many well-dressed strangers, the court was in 
a turmoil. The crippled Italian swung rapidh^ forward at the 
sound of my approaching cab-wheels, and intercepted me 
whether I would or not. He had been certain all along that 
the patient was a g7'an dama, and the other people had scoffed 
at him. Yet now — ahai Why did people of consideration 
come from the four quarters of the winds to visit her, unless 
his thoughts were true? Who but people of the first consid- 
eration were visited by two doctors at a time? He hovered 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


227 


round me on his restless crutches with a surprising agility, and 
I was obliged to be excessively gingerly in my movements, lest 
I should overthrow him in the dark as I walked toward the 
bottom of the court. I made one or two observations in an- 
swer to his rapid, broken chatter, and the English contingent 
of the court’s inhabitants made a chorus to us, chiefly inspired 
by wonder that anybody out of poverty’s kingdom should be 
able to understand his language. I know it will seem an ab- 
surd statement to many, but I know for a fact that the very 
. poor of London suppose all inhabitants of foreign countries to 
be poor and helpless, and regard a foreign tongue as the last 
badge of poverty. 

I escaped him at last, and found my way up the desolate 
and broken stairs once more. There was a low murmur of 
voices in the room, and when in answer to my faint and scarce- 
ly audible knock I was admitted. Dr. Mason was giving in- 
structions to the nurse. The humbler practitioner, who was 
a man of three- or four-and-twenty only, and had a face of 
keen intelligence, listened respectfully, and accepted the great 
man’s dicta with as evident a worship as a student of painting 
might have for the president of the Royal Academy, or a sub- 
altern for the directions of a field-marshal. The patient was 
awake, but very feeble. Her illness and her prolonged half- 
willful abstinence from food had peaked her features and 
brightened her great black eyes unnaturally. She looked all 
eyes, and the eyes looked a sad complainiug nothing, as if she 
had fallen away from all. sense of feeling and emotion. 

The doctors left with Mary and myself, and we walked to- 
gether into the nearest respectable thoroughfare. Talking of 
the case, at present. Dr. Mason said, he would not authorize 
the unhappy creature’s removal. Perhaps it might be possi- 
ble to-morrow. It would, of course, be well to secure cleanli- 
ness, pure air, and quiet, but her condition was for the mo- 
ment so critical that he could only leave her where she lay. 

‘‘ You have seen her now,” he said. “ What do you think? 
Is she the woman she pretends to be?” 

Yes,” I answered. She is Lord Worborough’s wife.” 

Ah, well,” rejoined the doctor; “ she’ll be no great loss if 
she goes, though we’ve got to do our best for her. Have you 
communicated with Lord Worborough? He ought to know.” 

I told him that I had already dispatched two telegrams, but 
that I was uncertain of the time they would take to reach their 
destination. He drew me further back, and allowed Mary and 
the young doctor to walk at some distance ahead of us. 

‘‘ Sister Constance is Miss Delamere, isn’t she?” And when 


228 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


I had answered in the affirmative, he nodded several times, 
and said that it was a curious conjunction of circumstances, 
when you came to think of it. ‘^Between ourselves, you 
know,/'’ he added, I'’m a little bit uncertain. We'’!! do what 
we can for her, but I don^t think she^ll pull through it. I 
don^t she^ll pull through it.^V 


CHAPTEE XXXrV. 

In two days^ time the patient, under the influence of warmth 
and nourishment, so far rallied that we were able to transport 
her to a clean and comfortable lodging. She gained more in 
willfulness than she gained in strength, and the nurse so far 
confided in me as to tell me that she had never before en- 
countered so intractable a subject. For four or five days I 
went regularly to see her once a day, to ascertain for myself 
what progress she was making, and she seemed at first to re- 
gard my presence as being quite natural and in the common 
order of things. 1 dare say she had been too weak to wonder 
much, or to take interest in her own surroundings. On the 
fourth or fifth day she had recovered something of her habitual 
scorn, and asked me point-blank what business her condicion 
was of mine. 1 tried to let this query go by unanswered, but she 
grew angry at my silence, and fearing lest in her weakened 
state she should do herself a mischief by an outburst of tem- 
per, I did my best to soothe her. I told her m what way I had 
learned of her accident and her whereabouts, and I added that 
I had wired to her husband. She lay looking at me with her 
greatened eyes for a time, and then with a faint motion of 
her head upon the pillow, as if she would have nodded to em- 
phasize her words, she said: 

“ 1 am not so easily conquered as you fancied. I shall have 
my way.^'’ 

A little later the nurse offered to do some small service for 
her, and was rejected angrily. She took no notice of this, but 
went tranquilly on, and the patient broke into a rage, which, 
though feebly expressed, was so intense and unassuageable that 
the woman was compelled to desist. 

At this moment, Mary, whom I had accompanied to the 
house, entered the room with a cup of beef-tea, which she at 
once proceeded to administer. Lady Worborough still cast 
glances of anger and aversion at the nurse, and muttered 
Rngrily about her, but she accepted Mary^s attentions, though 
with a sufficiently ill grace. From that time forward she 
seemed to do her best to make the hired nurse^s position un- 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


229 


bearable. That excellent woman bore with the vagaries of 
sickness and ill-temper with a phlegmatic good-lmmor which 
irritated the patient more than I think any other reception of 
her angry and contemptuous ways could have done. One of 
the purposely irritating devices Lady Worborough adopted was 
to beg Mary, in a tone of amiability, to reperform for her any 
little office the nurse might already have done. 

‘‘I dare say she means well,^’ she would say, “or might 
mean well if she did not give w^ay to temper, but she is a 
clumsy creature, and quite out of place in a sick-room. 

The nurse was not to be persuaded into any show of anger, 
whatever devices her ladyship might adopt, and the patient 
being one of those people who above all things loathe defeat in 
this direction, the good woman became utterly hateful and 
unbearable to her. If she could but have been persuaded to 
retort, the two might have got on together. Even if she had 
handled a tea-cup with unnecessary emphasis, or have poked 
the fire with more than needful vigor, the sick woman would 
have found some solace. But to lie there and spend the 
weary, painful hours in the vain attempt to irritate that 
placid, irresponsive, obstinately good-humored person was to 
aggravate her own native ill-humor beyond endurance. 

One day, when she had been installed in her new lodgings 
for about a week, I called to make my customary inquiry. I 
had been received with so little grace, as was only natural in 
the circumstances, that for a day or two I had not intruded 
upon her ladyship’s presence, but had simply made my in- 
quiries at the door, where I had had a momentary interview 
with Mary. On this occasion I learned, a little to my aston- 
ishment, that Lady Worborough missed me, and desired me to 
be shown to her room. 

“ You are very regular in your inquiries, it appears, Mr. 
Denham,” she said, when in answer to this invitation I pre- 
sented myself, “ but you should come in person to see what 
progress I make. It will be so much more satisfactory to your 
friend" if you can tell him at first-hand how sure I am to live 
and be a comfort to him. ” 

She was quite helpless below the waist, and I am inclined to 
think, from one or two phrases she had let fall already, that 
she believed this, terrible affliction likely to last her life-time. 
She did not seem at all quelled by the prospect, or even in any 
marked degree to rebel at it, but my own reflections upon it 
helped me to be patient with her bitter temper. 

“ His lordship takes his time in coming,” she said, a mo- 
ment later, with a feeble mockery. “ You and he, Mr. Den- 


230 . 


THE WEAKEK VESSEL. 


ham, have rather a poor opinion of a woman^s strength of 
mind, 1 think. I have heard so often that a little resolution, 
a little firmness, a little judicious patience, would work won- 
ders. But, you see, I have not given in. I should have died 
if I had not been found, no doubt. But dying is not giving 
in; it is not even being beaten."’^ 

“If you could have been persuaded,'’^ I answered, “that 
your husband had no wish to enter into any warfare with you, 
it would certainly have been happier. If you could be per- 
suaded now to arrive at any compromise, I am sure that he 
will be willing to do anything in reason. 

“ I do not mean,'’^ she responded, “ to accept any com- 
promise whatever.'’^ 

Feeble and wasted as she was, there was a kind of triumph 
in her manner. 

“ You think that because I am paralyzed 370 U have me in 
your power, but the fact is completely the reverse of that. I 
accept what you offer me at present, and I will continue to ac- 
cept it for a reasonable time. I wanted to see you, Mr. Den- 
ham, chiefly in order that I might tell you this. AVhen the 
reasonable time has expired, I shall refuse to take anything 
further from you, and will either have my rights or nothing. 
We will see whether or not my husband is villain and brute 
enough to allow a paralytic wife to starve. 

“ Can you fairly speak of your husband as allowing you to 
starve when he offers you five thousand pounds a year?^’ I 
asked. I was in sore dread lest this question should excite her, 
but on the whole it seemed very reasonable to put it, and 1 
ventured the experiment. It was a relief to find that she 
could answer it tranquilly. 

“ You observe, Mr. Denham, that when a thing is offered 
to you on such terms that you would rather die than take it, 
it might almost as well not be offered at all. I will have my 
right or nothing. 

There was a flash of fire in the last phrase, and I had already 
had too clear an indication of what her temper could be to 
dare to push her further. 

The young doctor came in a little later, and she welcomed 
him, as she had welcomed me, with a graciousness of manner 
very unusual in her. I was not long in being allowed to 
understand the meaning of this changed manner. 

“ You will find a seat upon this side of the bed, doctor, 
she said, indicating the position by a slight motion of the 
hand. “ Pray come and tell Mr. Denham how much better I 
am. He will hardly believe me when I tell him. He is in- 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


231 

ciined to be a little out of spirits about me, and it will cheer 
hiui to know that I am really getting stronger. Mr. Denham 
is a great friend of Lord W orborough^s, doctor. He will be 
able to convey the news to my husband, and to ease Ms 
mind. 

Neither her tone nor her manner gave any indication of the 
real meaning of this speech. It was spoken smilingly, and 
even with a kind of coquetry. If 1 had not known the truth 
so well .already, I should have supposed the words to have 
meant neither more nor less than they expressed in themselves. 
The young doctor felt her pulse, and made several common- 
place inquiries about her condition, to all of which she answered 
with the same amiable calm. 

“ Lady Worborough certainly gains in strength, Mr. Den- 
ham, he said, looking up at me — ‘‘gains considerably in 
strength. If you could contrive, now,"" he added, looking 
down at his patient, “ to preserve your present spirits, your 
advance might be much more rapid."" 

“ Oh,"" she answered, smiling at him, “ I shall not lose my 
spirits. You must know, doctor, that I am a most uncon- 
querable person, when I choose."" Then she turned to me: 
“ You will let his lordship know how I progress, Mr. Den- 
ham. You must write quite a flourishing account of me. I 
should so like to see his dear face when he reads your letter. 
It would be a comfort to me. I am a little tired now, Mr. 
Denham. I have talked too much. Good-day. Send Sister 
Constance to me."" 

I thought at the time that this request was made with no 
other object than to prevent me from inquiring further into 
her condition. I obeyed it, nevertheless, and went my way, 
wondering at the woman"s implacability and bitterness. So 
far, as I devoutly believe until this moment, the wrong which 
had separated her husband and herself was wholly on her side. 
I have often thought that this may partly have accounted for 
her hatred, for there is, unhappily, no philosophy truer than 
that which teaches that you have to hate to justify yourself 
from the victim of your own ill-doing. 

• Clara and I naturally thought the matter over pretty often, 
and she, with her usual directness of statement, declared Lady 
Worborough to be altogether a horrible and hateful person. I 
recounted this particular conversation to her faithfully, and 
she was moved to great anger by it. 

“ Do you wonder,"" she demanded, “ at your friend refusing 
to spend his life with a woman of that character? She would 
rather die than take the allowance he offers her? I think if I 


THE WEAKEK VESSEL. 


232 

were in his place I should be inclined to put that to the test. 
I would engage a man to wait upon her every day with the 
money and the necessary document. She would yield if she 
had the chance to yield. 

I represented that she seemed fairly well to have accepted 
the test already. Even before her accident rendered her help- 
less, she had sunk so low as to live voluntarily in one of the 
vilest slums in London, and now her helplessness gave her a 
new strength, and she knew it. 

Clara turned upon me with flashing eyes. 

Do you mean to tell me, John, that you will counsel your 
friend to yield to that woman^s demands 

I answered that I should so counsel him if he asked my ad- 
vice. It would be ignominious not to yield in such a case. 

“ Well,'’^ my wife declared, with a kind of despairing resigna- 
tion, “ it would be of no use for us to quarrel about other peo- 
ple's quarrels, but men don^t seem to see things as women do. 
Suppose it were a man who chose to act in this way. Suppose 
a man did all that lay in his power to make his wife^s life a 
burden to her. Suppose outside that expressed intention he 
drank, and had a hideous temper. Suppose the wife offered 
him five thousand pounds a year — he having not a penny in 
the world — to go away and merely cease to be a torment to 
her, whose side would you take then? Would you advise the 
wife to yield 

I thought not, but then, as I pointed out to her, I had 
never been one of the advocates of equal rights, between the 
sexes. In such a case as she chose to imagine my opinion was 
that a stout horsewhip might be employed with great advan- 
tage; though, even if the husband had been the sinner and not 
the wife, it would have been difficult to deal with him, when 
he became physically helpless, if he insisted seriously on dying 
or on having what he conceived to be his rights. 

In the case of this hypothetical personage of her own crea- 
tion Clara felt herself at liberty to be altogether resolute and 
unbending. 

“ I would allow him to insist upon dying, she declared. 
“ I would tell him with absolute plainness: ^ If you choose,' 
out of your own wicked obstinacy, to die in the midst of 
plenty, you must do it. There is your money. Take it and 
use it, or leave it and starve, as seems good to you.^ Is the 
world to be turned into an asylum for spoiled children who 
have gone mad with the indulgence of their own selfish pas- 
sions? If Lady Worborough had me to deal with she — She 
paused there, so fired by that prospect that she was afraid of 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


233 


saying too much, I fancy. When she had walked up and 
down the room for a minute or two she stopped short before 
me and opened up a new attack.. “ The fact is, John,"'’ she 
said, “ that your absurd yielding to this wicked woman is part 
and parcel of the enormous injustice your sex perpetually 
he^s on ours. "" 

This statement astonished me so much that I could find no 
reply to it, but she gave me no time for wonder. Her next 
sentences enlightened me. 

“ You propose,"" she went on, “ to give way to this woman "s 
monstrous claim. You admit that if the cases were reversed, 
and it was a man who made it, he would deserve to be horse- 
whipped. That is, you admit that her conduct is utterly base 
and despicable. But you don"t resent it; you don"t fight 
against it. And why? It is beneath your dignity to fight 
with her because she is a woman. Your mepris of women is 
so profound that it seems beneath you to meet them on equal 
ground — the equal ground of justice, and honor, and common 
sense."" 

“ My darling Clara,"" I urged, the dear creatures wouldn"t 
endure it for a moment. And besides, they don"t deserve to 
be treated in that way. A woman is not made for the rough- 
and-tumble of the world. It is no part of a man"s duty to 
treat women as if they were men, any more than to treat men 
as if they were women. You think our honest worship de- 
grades you? You think that, because even a bad woman 
carries about with her something of the sacredness with which 
we look at her happier sisters, men scorn your sex? That is 
poor logic. "" 

I don"t care,"’ protested Clara. ‘‘ I would never yield to 
that woman’s monstrous claim. I shall think it very unmanly 
in you if you advise Lord Worborough to take that line.” 

This proclamation alarmed me very little, for even thus 
early in my married life I had made one golden discovery. I 
commend it here to all young husbands who may find them- 
selves in need of advice upon this point. Follow thy con- 
science, oh, young husband! Be just, and fear not, and the 
wife of thy bosom shall respect thee more a thousand times, 
and love thee the more honestly, and think the better of thine 
understanding, than if, seeking to please her, thou shouldst 
depart from the law of thine own soul. For the just man, 
who does that and that only which seems good to him, is a 
pillar of strength for a woman’s heart to lean on, and she 
would rather him who can resist her for the sake of honest 
judgment than a thousand noodles who will melt at her tears 


234 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


or flutter away at her sighs in any direction in which it may 
please her to blow them. So that, whether I were right or 
wrong in respect of this matter, I was at least persuaded that 
1 was right, and could do no less than hold to my own per- 
suasion. Clara and I had many a battle about it, but neither 
could shake the other^s conviction. The one point I was pro- 
foundly convinced upon was the one thing she refused to be- 
lieve, and that alone was surely enough to keep two reasonable 
people from agreeing with each other. I knew of a certainty 
that Lady Worborough employed no figure of speech when she 
said that she would rather die than give way. She would have 
found a savage satisfaction in seeming to die of her husband^s 
neglect, and to have fixed on him the stigma of an actual 
brutality would have been a solace to her last hours. Who- 
ever else gave way she would not. 

The time went by and brought no news of Pole. I wrote to 
his steward at Worborough, and called upon his lawyer in 
London, but neither of them had any tidings of him since he 
had given instructions for the sale of his hotel and effects in 
Paris. At the expiration of a fortnight Mary brought home a 
message from Lady Worborough to the effect that she would 
be obliged if I would call upon her on the following day. I 
complied with this invitation wjith no light heart, for I guessed 
what was coming, and it happened that I guessed rightly. 

When I reached her room she was sitting propped up with 
pillows in bed, and her face wore all its old expression. 

“ I have sent for you, Mr. Denham, she began, ‘‘ to tell 
you that this must come to an end. I have waited a reason- 
able time; I shall wait no longer. After noon to-day I will 
take neither bite nor sup at the hands of any pretended charity 
which aims at holding me from the possession of my rights. ’’ 

I told her that there was no pretense in the matter, and 
since, in anticipation of this resolve of hers, I had carried the 
letter from the steward with me, I was able to place it at once 
in her hands. She glanced over it with a disdainful face, and 
let it fall contemptuously upon the coverlet. 

What is that to me.^^^ she asked. “ It is easy to concoct 
a story of that kind, and might be easy to keep me waiting 
here forever, if you had a fool to deal with.^^ 

“ Madame,'’’ I responded, ‘‘ you must take what course you 
please. I give you my word of honor as a gentleman that all 
reasoiiable means have been employed to ascertain your hus- 
band’s whereabouts.” 

Understand me,” she said, “ I have not a word to add.” 

Understand me also,” I replied, as 1 rose to go. “ You 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


235 


may do whatever reckless and foolish thing you may decide 
upon. But I will at least take care that my friend suffers no 
blame from your conduct. I have no fear that you will be 
allowed to do yourself a real damage. The doctors and the 
nurses will see to that. I am certain that when Lord Wor- 
borough returns he will give way to your unjust demands 
rather than continue so undignified a struggle. In the mean- 
time I have consulted Doctor Mason, and if you will allow me, 
I will report his judgment in his own words. I paused there 
for a moment, and she lifted her eyes, with the old menace 
and contempt I had had so many opportunities of reading, but 
she made no verbal answer. “ I am sorry, I went on, “ if I 
seem to be brutal, but you force me to absolute plainness. 
Doctor Mason's statement was given me in the words 1 give 
you now: ‘ If Lady Worborough chooses to behave like a mad- 
woman she must be treated like a mad-woman. She will not 
be allowed to hurt herself. ^ So soon as your husband receives 
my communication he will return. Until then you may 
safely reserve your forces. Until he comes there is nobody 
to coerce.'’^ 

This time she did not so much as answer me by a look. 
She had closed her eyes, and though I waited for a considera- 
ble length of time in silence she continued to ignore my pres- 
ence. I left her there and went home, deciding in my own 
mind to say nothing of our interview to Clara. , It would .only 
have strengthened her opinion as much as it strengthened 
mine; and since we were far enough removed upon that point 
already, it was wisest to keep silence. If I had been in Foley's 
place, and had had a woman of that sort to deal with, I would 
at this pass have surrendered everything, rather than continue 
a strife so completely ignominious. The woman was vulgar to 
the core, and if, as the poet tells us, the gods themselves fight 
in vain against stupidity, what shall it be said they hope for 
against a vulgar heart, which is stupidity in essence, plus greed 
in essence? 

I was sitting in my study, revolving these things in a mood 
more than sufficiently imbittered, when a knock came to the 
front door, and a servant brought me a telegram. It came 
from Pole, and was dated '^Geneva,'’' and its contents ran: 
“ Telegram received. With you in forty-eight hours. — Wor- 
borough. 

I carried this at once to Foleys wife, and having gained ad- 
mission to her room, handed it to her, telling her that it had 
just arrived. She read it with a smile of mockery. 

Do you think, she asked, “ that I am a child or a fool 


286 


THE WEAKEK VESSEL. 


that you play this comedy with me? I win, you see. You 
may bring, me my beef- tea, nurse. Not you! How often am 
I to tell you that I will take nothing at your hands. Where is 
Sister Constance? Let Sister Constance bring it. I tell you I 
wdl not take anything except from Sister Constance. 

Mary, hearing her impatient patient^s voice raised in this 
feeble anger, entered from the adjoining room. 

“ Send that creature away!^^ screamed the sick woman. “ I 
will not have her about me!^^ 

1 left Mary standing over her, quiet and persuasive, and the 
shrill, feeble, denouncing scream followed me down-stairs. 


CHAPTEE XXXV. 

When Mary returned home that night Clara happened to 
be absent, and she and I sat alone. She was sewing at some 
coarse garment for one of her poor, and I, revolving in my 
own mind how best to approach the theme I had in my 
thoughts, sat for awhile pretending to read. At last I set 
my book on one side and announced, in as commonplace a 
voice as I could command, that i had received a telegram 
from Lord Worborough, who would be in England the day 
after the morrow. It was not easy to mention his name in 
her' presence, mainly because of the facts themselves, but 
partly because there had been a conspiracy of silence among 
us, and we had all grown used to the avoidance of that topic 
in her presence. Shei^rembled ever so little, and the motion 
of the needle grew unsteady and inaccurate. She was more 
accustomed to controlling her feelings than to concealing 
them, and was by nature curiously frank for a woman, and 
almost at once she laid down her sewing and looked up at me, 
with nothing but a slight pallor to indicate the emotion this 
news had caused her. 

Yes?^^ she said,- simply. ‘‘ Your message seems to have 
taken some time in reaching hini.^^ 

‘‘ He was not far afield,^'’ T answered; “ no further away 
than Geneva. 

Does he know,^’ she asked, “ your reasons for calling him 
home?^^ 

‘‘ Not yet,'’^ i told her. But I supposed that he would have 
guessed that it related to Lady Worborough. 

‘‘ Do you think, she asked, ‘‘ that he will grant the claim 
she intends to make upon him?’' I dare say I looked some- 
what surprised at this, for she added, in a voice of explana- 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 237 

tion: “ Lady Worborough talks a great deal to me of her own 
affairs. . 

“I think he will do anything/^ I responded, “anything 
within the bounds of reason, to put an end to the struggle 
which is going on between them.^^ 

I heard a faint sigh as she took up her work and bent over 
it anew. It seemed to indicate relief, and I asked if such a 
course on his part would be approved by her. 

“ I do not know,^' she said. “ I think that Lord Wor- 
borough will try to act for the best.^’ 

She was so tranquil and self-controlled that I began to feel 
safe in discussing the subject with her. 

“ Of course,^" I told her, “ I should not think of pressing 
my advice upon him if it were not asked for, but he and 1 are 
such close friends, and he has so invariably consulted my 
judgment in this matter, that I have no doubt it will be asked 
again. 

“ Arid if it should be,^’’ she asked me, dropping her sewing 
to her lap and lookiiig up at me anew, “ you would advise 
him to surrender?'^ 

“ I should advise him,^^ 1 answered, “ to end a quarrel with 
an opponent who has neither generosity nor decency. It is 
impossible to conduct a dignified warfare with such a woman 
as Lady Worborough. 

“ She is a woman of a strange temper,’^ Mary said. 

“ Strange, indeed!^^ I echoed, and then we were both silent 
for a considerable time. 

Mary took up her sewing but did not go on with her work. 
1 could see that she had fallen into a reverie, and the stuff' 
dropped back to her knees with both hands clasping it. I 
ntade a pretense of reading, and in awhile she awoke from her 
own thoughts and arose. 

“I would rather not meet Lord Worborough,’’ she said, 
•quietly. “If he should resolve to see his wife will you let 
me know of it?” 

I promised, and she left the room. The subject was not re- 
newed between us until Pole actually reached England. He 
sent a telegram, from Dover, and I met him at the London 
terminus. We drove at once to his old chambers, where we 
found a fire already lighted, a' table spread, and a Swiss serv- 
ant, who appeared to have been dispatched in advance, in at- 
tendance. I had told Pole the story while driving homeward, 
and the man being dismissed, we sat down together to consider 
it, and to decide upon the course to be taken. 

“ I must acknowledge,” I said, “ that the present condition 


238 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


of things is partly due to the advice I gave you. Without that 
advice Lady Worborough would not have fallen into the condi- 
tion in which she was discovered. 

“You blame yourself he asked me, in a voice of surprise. 

I did not blame myself, but 1 accepted the responsibility of 
the advice I had offered. 

“ She has herself to blame, said Pole, “ and herself only. 
For my part I disclaim all responsibility. I took your advice 
before, and if you will give it now I will take it again. I am 
sick of the whole business, and only anxious to end it. 

I represented that there was no way of ending it except by 
acceding to his wife's demand. 

“ And you advise that?’^ he asked, standing before me with 
his hands clasped behind him. 

“ This is rather a hard matter,^' I said, in answer. “ It 
looks a thought too easy for one man to be generous with an- 
other's fortune, but I see no other way to end it; and I do see 
very clearly that it ought to be ended. 

“ You advise me to give her what she asks?^^ 

“ I advise you to give her what she asks.^’ 

He walked up and down the room abruptly once or twice 
before he spoke again. 

“ There is nothing to be gained,^’ he said, “ by discussing 
with her. If I make up my mind to do this I shall do it with- 
out bargaining or haggling.'"’ He sat down thoughtfully, and, 
consulting some memoranda in a pocket-book, made a few 
penciled notes. “ I shall strike,’’ he said, then, looking up at 
me in the act of returning the book to his pocket, “ while the 
iron is hot. I will see her to-night, and I hope with all my 
heart that it may be for the last time. ” 

“ To-nightp” I asked him. “ Will it not be better to think 
so serious a matter over?” 

“ No,” he answered; “ it will be time enough to consult 
the lawyers when the business comes to be arranged. Give me 
the address, and I will go at once.” 

Now, both for Mary’s sake and for his own I was anxious 
that he should not go at once, because I knew how painful to 
both of them a meeting would be; and if he should reach his 
wife’s chamber before I had time to give warning, an encounter 
was inevitable. I had of set purpose withheld her name from 
the narrative I had given him. 

He threw off his coat and walked into the bedroom, where 
he began to wash his hands, looking round the door-way at me 
meanwhile. 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


239 


'' Give me the address/" he said, and I will go and get it 
over."" 

‘‘ I will leave you, then, for a time,"" I answered. ‘‘ I have 
business which I must see to immediately."" 

I scrawled the address upon an envelope which lay on a 
side-table, called his attention to it, and seized my hat. He 
called to me to meet him there again in an hour"s time, if I 
were free, and throwing back a hasty affirmative I hurried 
away. Before I left his chambers I was guilty of another 
mean expedient. There was a catch upon the outer door 
which could be liberated, as I knew from old experience, by a 
mere touch of the finger, but gave considerable trouble and 
demanded considerable patience for its readjustment. I let 
this slip, and having slammed the door behind me, ran swiftly 
down the stairs, along the court, and into Holborn. There, 
as chance would have it, I found a cab waiting by the curb, 
and leaping in, gave the cabman the address and bade him 
drive his hardest. Like most people, I had tried Time"s 
different paces, and have known him at one time or another 
to gallop and amble and crawl. But he never crawled with 
me as he did in the course of that wretched twenty minutes" 
drive. If I had painstakingly gone about to discover the 
worst-horsed hansom at that hour in London, I could hardly 
have found anything to excel in badness the mournful brute I 
sat behind. A hundred times 1 was on the point of leaping 
from the vehicle, but the cabman had made a turning into a 
neighborhood where 1 was extremely unlikely to find another 
conveyance, and 1 was uncertain of the shortest route between 
the point I was at and the one I desired to reach. I bullied 
and implored the driver, and the man responded by thrashing 
the miserable steed until I was ashamed of myself for abetting 
the cruelty. Even thus we achieved only the wretchedest pace, 
and by the tim’e we had reached the house 1 was burning with 
a feverish impatience. 

Even when I had rung and knocked the misfortune of delay 
pursued me. The servants of the house might have been deaf, 
or dead, or miles away. I was in the act of ringing the third 
or fourth distracted peal when the door was opened by the 
landlady in person, who regarded me with a frozen air of 
hauteur, as if I had been guilty of a personal impropriety. I 
hurried past her without explanation or apology, and, mount- 
ing the stair, knocked at the door of the ante-chamber. The 
nurse answered here expeditiously enough, and I demanded 
Sister Constance. I was in the very act of speaking when the 
Jmocker on the street door came into play again, and this time 


24:0 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


the call was responded to without delay. I had been so press- 
ing in my speech to the nurse that she ran to the door of the 
sick-chamber. She opened it slightly, and threw in a hasty 
and expressive whisper. 

“ Sister Consance, Mr. Denham must speak to you a once. 

It is very commonly said that one can not listen to two 
things at the same time. But after the experience of that 
moment 1 knew this to be a fallacy. 1 heard Mary^s response, 
even the rustle of her dress as she approached me from the 
next room, while I listened for, heard, and understood, Pole^s 
voice below. 

I believe Lady Worborough is here?^^ 

Yes, sir,^^ said the landlady. 

I am her husband. I must see her, if you please. 

“ This way, your lordsip,^^ said the laudla4y. ‘‘ Mind the 
mat, my lord. You will find the poor lady very ill, my lord. 

Mary' Delamere and 1 stood face to face, both hearing this. 
She was white and trembling, and looked about her as if 
searching a way of escape from the inevitable encounter. The 
room opened flush upon the landing at the top of the stair, 
and there was no exit from it save that which led into the bed- 
room. The bedroom and the anteroom were isolated, and to 
retreat was but to defer the meeting for a moment. 

“ I came to warn you/* I said. 1 could say no more before 
Pole, still my lorded by the landlady, entered the room. The 
gas-light shone full upon Mary^s face, and in spite of the 
change in her attire, he recognized her at the very instant 
when he crossed the threshold. They stood, pale and palpi- 
tating, for a moment, looking at each other, but the common 
surprise and emotion lasted but for an instant. They were 
lovers confessed, and bound to each other by all ties of mutual 
respect and tenderness, and severed in this strange and tragic 
fashion, but they were English lady and gentleman, and what- 
ever either or both might feel, they would have no scene for 
unsympathetic eyes to make a feast of. Pole was, I think, 
the first to recover, though his surprise was the swifter and 
more astonishing. He came forward with outstretched hand. 

I had not •expected,'’^ he said, ‘‘to find you here. It is 
like your goodness. I am very grateful. 

Mary took the hand he proffered her. Probably she divined 
with native feminine tact that I had told my share in the dis- 
covery without mention of her. She shot a swift glance at 
me, and answered him with apparent perfect self-possession. 

“ Mr. Denham and I were together when I heard of your 
wife^s illness."' 


THE WEAKER VESSEL 


241 


She made a motion to release her hand, and that I thought 
was the first intimation he had that he still held it. The 
landlady and the' nurse looking on could have gathered noth- 
ing from this interview, but the fact that they were old ac- 
quaintances. 

“ It is like your goodness to be here,^^ Pole said again. I 
am very grateful. 4 

Lady Worborough,"' said Mary, ‘‘ does not know that you 
are yet in England. You wish to see her?^^ He nodded 
gravely. Shall I tell her of your arrival, or would you 
prefer to announce yourself?^'’ 

It will be best, perhaps,^'’ he responded, that she should 
be prepared. 

Mary passed into the bedroom, and Pole sat down in a chair 
by the table which stood in the center of the room. The land- 
My withdrew lingeringly, and the nurse followed and closed 
the door behind her. Pole had not until now seemed to be 
aware of my presence, but as the door closed he looked round 
upon me with an odd smile, and laid a hand upon my shoulder. 

“ I spent two minutes over the latch, Jack,’^ he said. ‘‘Was 
that your work?^'’ I answered nothing, but I suppose 1 looked 
somewhat embarrassed. “ Well,-^^ he continued, giving my 
shoulder a light grip before he dropped his hand, “ you are 
good people, and I donT know why such a worthless pair 
should trouble you.^^ 

I made no answer to this, but one thought which demanded 
instant expression flashed into my mind. 

“You must give no hint,'’^ 1 told him, “ that your wife^’s 
nurse is Miss Helamere. She is known here simply as Sister 
Constance. 

I had scarcely spoken when Mary stole back from the sick 
woman^s chamber. 

“ She knows that you are here,^^ she whispered. 

Pole walked into the bedroom, and Mary closed the door be- 
hind him. We who stayed behind rested in silence and could 
hear the deep tones of his voice and the shriller notes of hers, 
though the words spoken by each were alike inaudible. When 
we had stood thus for a mere moment Mary made a motion 
toward the outer door, and I, obeying that indication of her 
wish, opened the door for her, and accompanied her into the 
street. We walked for some distance without any exchange of 
words, and when I had found a cab and had directed the driver 
homeward, I walked back to Pole^s chambers, and awaited his 
coming there. He arrived sooner than I had expected. 

“ I have surrendered all along the line,^^ he said. 


24/J THE WEAKER VESSEL. 

I asked him how his wife had accepted the surrender. 

Triumphantly/^ he answered. ‘‘ She is a good deal 
changed. I have had no experience in such matters, but she 
looked to me as though she had a sort of fatal mark upon her. 
1 donT think she'll last long, the poor Adelaide. She wasn't 
always like that, Jack. 1 remember her — it isn't so very long- 
ago — when she was bright and handsome, and only prettily 
willful. 1 feel as if it were a thousand years ago." 

ile walked up and down the room very much in his habitual 
fashion, with his hands in his pockets, and pausing now and 
then to loll against a book-case or a door- jamb, but it was 
easy to see that these airs of nonchalance were half an affair of 
habit, and half assumed. 

‘‘You have done everything for the best, of course," he 
said. “ Who is attending her.^" 

1 mentioned Dr. Mason, and he, recognizing the name, 
nodded approval. A little later he asked the doctor's opinion, 
and 1 gave it him as well as I was able. The case was doubt- 
ful, and might drag on for a year or two, or might have an 
early termination. 

“ Poor girl!" said Pole. “ I wish that something or some- 
body would kill that mocking devil she nurses and seems so 
fond of. She lay there to-night, and told me so quietly that 
at first I thought she was in earnest, that this was a judgment 
upon her for her plot against me. " The woman she personated 
was knocked down by a passing cab, and was taken to the 
same hospital. " 

“ She jested about that?" I asked him. 

“Yes," he answered, “she jested about it. She has a 
great deal of humor— of a sort. " 

Then again he was. silent, and went wandering up and down'. 

“ And this is what she has brought her life to. And this is 
what I have brought my life to. Here 1 am at thirty, where 
I never hoped to be or expected to be, without a use in the 
world or much of a hope in it." His voice began to tremble, 
and, as I could see clearly enough, he ceased to speak for fear 
of breaking down. By and by, when he had controlled him- 
self, he began to talk again. “There are all sorts in the 
world, good, bad, and indifferent. That girl's an angel, Den- 
ham," he cried, almost wildly. “ I think of her goodness, her 
loneliness, her patience, the unselfish tender charity of her 
heart—" 

He could go no further. His voice broke, and he walked 
into the bedroom, leaving me alone. When he came back he 
was master of himself again. . 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


243 


1 shall see my lawyer to-morrow.. My wife wants that 
feUow Goldsmith to see to her affairs, and since she wants him 
she must have him, I suppose. I have an undertaking that 
there is to be no more scandal or trouble, and 1 shall settle 
down in London here, and try to find work of some sort. I 
don't care much about politics, but they're better than noth- 
ing, and by and by 1 shall find something to hammer at. 
Sicrsum corda. Eh, Jack? We set out thinking that it is 
easy to beat the world, and when we find ourselves beaten we 
console ourselves with the reflection that we might have had a 
much worse licking after all.'' 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

It was one thing to decide that Lady Worborough was at 
liberty to take up her residence at Worborough Court, and an- 
other thing for her ladyship to get there. The mere shock of 
the accident from which she had suffered would have killed 
some women outright. ,,The bout of starvation by which she 
was content to follow it might of itself have resulted fatally. 
She rdust have been blessed with a noble constitution to begin 
with, though in one way at least she had been doing her best 
to ruin it for years past, and even now her passionate and im- 
perious will continued to assert itself. She would go to Wor- 
borough Court. The doctor assured her that she might die 
upon the way, and declined to sanction her removal. All the 
same, she would go to W'orborough Court. 

“ My dear madame," said the doctor, “ it is at present im- 
possible for you to make a journey. Perhaps in the course 
of a week or two it may be safe to remove you. At present it 
would be little less than criminal to attempt it." 

My lady hereupon became certain that the doctor was a 
member of that widespread society which conspired to rob her 
of her rights — her right by this time being clearly defined as 
tlie Tight to do, at any given moment, precisely what she 
wished. He had entered into a compact with Lord Wor- 
borough to keep her a prisoner ' in that horrible house. She 
stormed and raved herself into a condition of utter weakness, 
and for four or five days afterward lay quite helpless at the 
benevolent mercy of doctors and nurses. When she had re- 
covered strength enough to venture#)!! a second outburst she 
indulged herself. She would go to Worborough Court or die. 
They had almost killed her by throwing her into a rage. They 
knew her infirmity of temper, and they all worked upon it and 
traded on it. They wanted to find a means to kill her safely, 


2U 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


but she would disappoint them, banded cheats and villaius as 
they were: She threw the whole household into choas on this 
occasion, and refused to be quieted until she had raged herself 
once more to a standstill, and could no longer articulate a 
word. 

I learned all this, and something more, from Dr. Mason, 
who now made a call upon the patient daily. There are few 
people whose passive endurance of foolish whims and unrea- 
sonable rages can be compared with that of a doctor, and 
Mason, who had had an experience extraordinary alike for ex- 
tent and variety, had at one' time practiced in lunacy, and was 
as little affected by her ladyship's wild tantrums as glass is 
affected by water. 

“ The fact is," he told me, there is an actual discernible 
touch of madness in these displays of rage. The woman be- 
gins, so far as sanity is a thing to be' measured, in a frame of 
mind as sane as yours or mine. Bcit she starts with the- 
definite intention of handing' herself over to delirium, and she 
does it. If she likes to kill herself nobody can be very sorry,: 
and nobody can prevent her from doing it." 

This talk took place in my own study, rather late one night, 
when the doctor had seen his last patient for the day, and could 
afford to smoke his sole cigar. He prized that nightly enjoy- 
ment very dearly, and as he was in great request among ladies, 
it was only possible for him at a time when he could make 
tolerably sure that none of his patients would send for him. 
Knowing my intimacy with Pole, he was pretty free in his 
comments on the situation, and Lady Worborpugh’s character 
appeared to interest him deeply. 

“ It's a queer room, that," he said, ‘‘ with its two opposites 
in it. It's really a little astonishing to reflect that they be- 
long to the same species. Lady Worborough doesn't guess 
who her nurse is, and in an odd sort of way she's developing a 
liking for her. Not that there's anything astonishing in that, 
per se. Almost anybody might be excused for taking a liking 
to Miss Delatnere. By the way," he interjected, “I have 
been once or twice in danger of making trouble. Meeting 
Miss Delamere here without that Sister of Mercy raiment of 
hers, I have been half-inclined to forget my old acquaintance,, 
Sister Constance. She ^ives in my mind as Miss Delamere.. 
I think of her as Miss Delamere, and my instinct is to speak, 
of her as Miss Delamere. Now, that instinct might bring 
about an awkward position if it were yielded to in Lady Wor- 
borongh's presence. You understand me, Denham. I'm not 
disputing the goodness or beauty of the action. But women. 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


245 


have a curious love of romance. They like to find themselves 
in romantic and picturesque situations. It is meat and drink 
to a woman to be a living part in a moving story. We drudge 
along, contented with our daily duties, and after four- or five- 
and-twenty have no particular desire to be mixed up with won- 
ders. But a woman is never tired of the romantic aspect of 
things. I^’m a great believer in the sex myself, and a great 
admirer of it, but if you'll look at the question, a great many 
of the best feminine qualities are bound up with this love of 
romance, and are almost a part of it. A woman of ninety is 
just as ready to discover a romance as a girl of sixteen. They 
never tire of it. 

For my part I have never been too fond of analyzing human 
motives, when they happen to be either good in themselves or 
to lead to good results. It may be worth while to analyze the 
motives of a rascal, and to discover the grounds he has for 
self -excuses, and thereby to minimize one^s natural loathing 
for him. But though some find it amusing and instructive, I 
have never cared to macerate the motives of the good in search 
of the one possible thread of folly or of meanness which may 
run through them. There are plenty of people in the world 
who are willing to take up that task, and I prefer the other. 
So I declined to foUow up the question of feminine romantic 
instinct which the doctor had started. 

“ You really think, I asked, “ that Lady Worborough is 
growing attaclid to Miss Delamere?^^ 

“ Bless you, yes,-’^ returned the doctor, who, though pro- 
foundly good-hearted, was yet a bit of a cynic in his way. 
“ I\e seen a sort of affection displayed by a rattlesnake for its 
keeper. 

I had hardly intended to put the question in that light. I 
had been bred in the belief, though I have since had to aban- 
don it, that there is in every human creature somewhere to be 
found a touch of goodness, and I was certainly very far from 
believing Lady Worborough to be among the most inhuman of 
her kind. She was passionate and scornful and self-willed, 
and had been guilty in intention of one most cruel and terrible 
crime, Wt it had not occurred to me to place her outside the 
reach of human sympathy. Indeed, I thought it very likely 
that if the key to her heart could but be found, there might 
be a chamber in it somewhere yet, where some relics of affec- 
tion and tenderness were stored. I thought that Mary Dela- 
mere was as likely as any creature in the world to find that 
chamber, and even to be welcomed into it, 

“We have had to pack off the hired nurse to -day, the doc- 


246 


THE WEAKEK YESSEL. 


tor continued, as he n arsed his solitary cigar, and made the 
most of his enjoyment of it. “ She is an excellent woman, 
and I have sent in a report of her conduct which 1 fancy will 
be of use to her. But her ladyship either couldn^t endure her, 
or made up her mind that she wouldn^t endure her. The 
nurse stuck to it like a Briton, but when at last it was decided 
that she should go she was the happiest woman in London. I 
have sent in another to succeed her, but she is a copper-haired 
lady of peppery temperament, and 1 fancy there will be an- 
other rupture very soon. In point of fact, her ladyship^s 
shindies with the nurse were not intended to do much more 
than to express a preference for Miss Delamere. If ever she 
grows strong enough to be removed to Worborough Court, she 
will want Miss Delamere to accompany her. She's quite suffi- 
ciently ungracious and disagreeable with the companion of her 
choice, but with everybody else she is a constant brash of bit- 
ter waters. There are loads of .people in the world who, if they 
were invited to discriminate between Eichard the Saint and 
Eobert the Sinner, couldn't for their lives endure to say that 
Eichard was better than Eobert. They'd say that Eobert was 
worse than Eichard, and find it soothing to themselves to indi- 
cate the difference in that fashion. In a really benevolent 
humor they might say he was a great deal worse; but they 
wouldn't get higher than that. It's Lady Worborough's fash- 
ion of complimenting Miss Delamere to fiy into rages with the 
paid attendants. It's noticeable that she never flies into a rage 
with her." * 

He went on smoking with that air of subdued, intense en- 
joyment which is only displayed by the self-denying devotee of 
tobacco, and shortly resumed. ' 

“ There's another thing, my boy. Miss Delamere 's a lady, 
and Lady Worborough is not a lady, and in her secret soul 
she's afraid of her attendant's breeding. She dare not launch 
out on her as she does at everybody else. It's curious, when 
you come to think of it, how important we all are to ourselves. 
It hurts us to be despised, and above all things in the world 
we can't afford to despise ourselves. To despise one's self is 
a thing that most men of sense arrive at, at one time or an- 
other; but nobody does it willingly, any more willingly than 
he puts his hand in the fire. And, don't you see, when you 
want to conserve your own good opinion, it's useful to have 
just a little shred of somebody else's to train it by. Anything 
will serve. The blankest, barest wall in the world is good 
enough for ivy to cling to, or the rottenest old tree-trunk that 
ever got ready to tumble. But the healthiest hop or scarlet- 


THE WEAKEE VESSEL. 


U7 

runner won^t grow without what we call a risel in my part of 
the country. It must have a stick to hold on to.^^ 

He took a long-pull at his cigar, and after rolling the smoke 
about enjoyingly in his mouth, expelled it by the nostrils, and 
went on again, with the air of a man satisfied with his own 
philosophic attitude. 

‘‘ If 1 were a betting man I^’d bet a million sterling to a 
half-penny that in case Lady Worborough should ever be 
strong enough to go down -to Devonshire, Miss Delamere goes 
with her. I can see her winding her coils about her closer and 
closer day by day. I doubt if sheM care to take the trouble if 
she knew her uurse'^s real name; but she^s making up to her 
bit by bit, and leading her on to believe that she's the only 
creature in the world to cling to, and flattering her with the 
belief that she can soften her, and believing in it just a little 
bit, mind you, and being softened just a little bit in reality. 
There’s a lot of human nature in man, my young friend, and 
we are mostly made up of humbug.” 

“ Come, come, doctor,” I urged; “ is there any humbug on 
the other side?” 

‘‘ Did you ever,” the doctor asked me in return, “ read 
PascaTs panegyric on salt? I could write a similar panegyric, 
if I were to give my mind to it, on humbug. It holds the 
world together. Kill it outright, and you would kill benevo- 
lence, philanthrop}^, love, and friendship. Everything in- 
cludes a bit of make-believe. ” 

I fought hotly against this shameful heresy; but the doctor 
refused all challenges to personal example, and sheltered him- 
self behind the ample breastwork afiorded by generalities. 

“ Well,” he said at last, “ you fight in defense of your god- 
dess very pluckily. Of course I have the best of the argument, 
and have had all along. That goes without saying. But if 
you need it for your comfort, I don’t mind admitting — she 
isn’t a goddess; but she’s a rare good woman, and if we were 
all like her we should be ready for the millennium. ” 

“We should be more than ready for it,” I responded; “ we 
should be living in it. ” 

“ Well,” he answered, with a deep, rolling laugh, which I 
had discovered to be in him a most expansive expression of 
good-fellowship, “if you set any store by Miss Delamere’s 
society, you’d better keep an eye upon the patient. She’s try- 
ing her best to wean her away from you, and to enlist her in 
her own. cause.” He rose, and threw the remnant of his cigar 
into the fire, stretching out his arms afterward in an abandon- 
ment of rest, looking smilingly at me the while. 


248 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


“ Denham/^ he said, with sudden seriousness, “ T don't 
often talk about these things. It's my business to attend to 
ailments which are purely physical, and I don't pry into the 
spiritual machinery any further than is necessary for my'pur- 
poses. But I saw a sight this afternoon. I have told you 
already how Lady Worborough's twining herself about Miss 
Delamere. When I went in to see her this afternoon she was’ 
sitting propped up on a bed-rest in a heap of pillows, and Miss 
Delamere was sitting at the bedside. They were holding each 
other's hands, and Miss Delamere was reading out of the Bible. 
Nice, pretty, clear, grave voice she has." He said this with 
an air of transparent commonplace, which I took to be some- 
what exaggerated. 

There is a good deal of humbug in the world, doctor,^' I 
said, quietly. He pretended for an instant not to see my drift, 
and then responded: 

“ You're quite right, Denham. There was a little bit of it 
there; but it was all on one side." 

I asked him why the unhappy woman should not be drawn 
toward some tender and sacred thoughts by Mary's constant 
patience and kindness. 

“ I dare say she is a little bit," he answered. But she 
pretends to a good deal more than she feels. She wants to 
have a lady about her. She wants to feed her own sense of 
self-esteem. There may be some affection mixed with it, but 
it isn't very real. And when you know, as well as I do, what 
a general hash alcohol can make of the human emotions, you 
may come to be of my opinion about a good many pyrotechqic 
displays which excite admiration and wonder just at present, 
and set your own internal fire- works going by the mere contact 
of a spark. " 

‘‘ I shall have some hope," 1 said, “ if Lady Worborough 
begins on any ground to care for Miss Delamere. Do you 
think she will ever be able to go to Worborough Court?" 

If she could command her temper," he responded, “ she 
might gain strength in a week or a fortnight; but the whole 
thing is a question of time. She won't last a year, and if she 
goes on fretting herself as she does, she'll wear herself out in 
half the time. Taut mieux, say I. But then I'm a brute and 
a cynic, and a believer in the doctrines of Utopia." 

I saw no more of him, and learned no more of the actual 
progress of this history for a week. At the end of that time 
he came again. Clara had some slight ailment which really 
demanded no particular care, and he came more for the pleas- 
ure of a chat with me than for professional reasons. 1 was 


249 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 

able to offer him the cigar he lilted best, for in that matter, as 
it happened, our tastes agreed, though we found ourselves 
differing widely or matters of far greater importance. 

Her ladyship will take possession, he said.. “ There is a 
mighty change for the better ♦in her ways and manners. She 
goes now like sweet-oil upon a whetstone. She has got a kind 
of mania to the effect that we are all in a conspiracy to kill 
her by pretending that she canTgodownto Worborough Court 
because she isnT strong enough, and so leading her on to out- 
bursts of temper. Now, with a kind of half-crazed cunning, 
for in point of fact thaVs what it actually comes to, she has 
made up her mind to defeat our machinations, and has taken 
up the line of the resigned and suffering martyr. She does 
whatever she is told to do. She takes her medicine and her 
food with the most touching submissiveness, always with a 
plainly expressed belief that they are poisoned for her, and she 
clings to Miss Delamere with a surprising tenderness. She 
hasnT slanged the copper-haired nurse this four days, and 
everybody is touched by her resignation and new-born gentle- 
ness. Meantime I have discovered that a little servant has 
been bribed with promises to smuggle in brandy and lauda- 
num. 1 anticipate an outburst, but I have been compelled to 
see that young woman out of the house. I offered to bet you 
a million sterling to a half-penny that Miss Delamere would 
accompany her. Now, I will give the solar system against a 
used lucifer match Miss Delamere will go if Lady Worborough 
goes. 


CHAPTEE XXXVIl. 

It was not only from Dr. Mason that I had news of the 
change which had taken place in Lady Worborough. Night 
after night Mary returned full of it, and opened her heart to 
Clara and myself without reserve. She had none of the doc- 
tor's practiced knowledge of the world, and I do not believe 
that all the knowledge of its own ways the world could bring 
her could ever have taught her his fashion of looking at things. 

She is softening, she would say. “ She is so changed I 
hardly know her. She clings to me in a way which 1 find very 
touching, and sometimes^the poor thing makes allusions to the 
past and the sad mistakes of her own life, which almost bring 
tears into my eyes. She is very unhappy and very much alone. 
I asked her this afternoon about her friends. She gave a little 
dreary laugh. ‘ My friends! I have worn them out years ago. 
1 have no friends.^ 


250 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


This, 1 am fain to confess, sounded more real than Dr. 
Mason ^s account would have led me to think it. But then, in 
this story as in every other, so much depended on the telling. 
The doctor told it cynically, and was more than half right, I 
dare say. Mary told it sympathetically, and I fancy she was 
not much more than half wrong. 

By and by, to my own surprise, came an invitation to my-‘ 
self. Why, the sick woman demanded, did Mr. Denham keep 
away? The most obvious answer to that query was that Mr. 
Denham had had no reason for going; but when the inquiry was 
once made there was nothing for it but to accept the invitation 
it indicated, and to pay Lady Worborough a visit. I was the 
readier to do this because of the conflicting nature of the testi- 
mony 1 received about her. I was a little anxious to see for 
myself how far the change in her manner was real and how far 
assumed, if assumed at all. I made my way to the house the 
following afternoon, and after a little pause was shown into 
her ladyship's chamber. She was certainly a great deal im- 
proved in aspect since we had flrst lighted upon in Green 
Hill Court, and the memory of what she 1^ looked like then 
made so strong a contrast with her presi®; aspect that she 
looked much better than she really was. \\men the first effect 
of surprise had left my mind, I saw that there was still some- 
thing of that same ghastly fatal look which I had remarked 
before. Everybody who has been in close attendance upon 
an invalid doomed to a long and lingering illness, and doomed 
past recovery, sees these strange fluctuations of expression. 
The sick face brightens and fills out, but visible under that 
surface improvement the unmistakable marks lie scarcely dis- 
guised. 

She held out a weak, thin right hand as I approached her, 
and I confess that, as I took it in my own, the unexpected 
gesture of amity and welcome made a considerable impression 
upon me. 

I asked after her health, and she responded with a feeble 
lightness that she was better, much better. 

“ The doctor shakes his head, but then he is not here to en- 
courage me. That is ik) part of his business, but I know from 
my own feelings that I am mending very fast. ~ By and by I 
shall be running about again." 

One could say nothing to kill a hope like that, or even to 
chill it by a breath, but ignorant as I was I knew better than 
to believe it. I managed to say something about courage be- 
ing of infinite use'in such a case, hut she seemed to take little 
heed of my answer, and only motioned me to a seat. 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


251 


Sister Constance tells me/^ she said, ‘‘ that she has known 
you for quite a long time. You are not like the others. I 
can see that for myself. You are a great friend of Lord Wor- 
borough^s?^^ 

In one interview already chronicled she had alluded to my 
intimacy with her husband in terms which were anything but 
flattering. 1 recalled them now, and though it would have 
been absurd enough to remember them with malice or with 
anger against a creature so afflicted, the remembrance cer- 
tainly saved me from accepting her present overtures with too 
great alacrity. I answered simply that her husband was the 
greatest friend I had in the world, and waited to hear further. 

You look unsuspicious,^^ she said, ‘‘ and you are not very 
old. But I wonder that you have not found him out. 1 
thought that I knew most that’ was to be found out about him 
already, but I said nothing. That, however, she went on, 
with a martyred smile which gave me the first real clew to her 
temper and intention, was not what I wanted to talk to you 
about. I want you to carry a message to Lord Worborough. 
Will you take it foFme?^' 

“ Certainly,^^ I answered. 

Mary was standing gravely at the foot of the bed with a 
piece of sewing in her hands. 1 gave an involuntary glance 
at her, which she did not see. I had a feeling of awkwardness 
in conducting any conversation about Pole in her presence, but 
it was not to be avoided, and the only thing to do was to go 
through it without betraying either her or myself. 

‘‘ You will not believe what I am going to tell you,"'^ said 
Lady Worborough, “but it is true all the same.^^ Her man- 
ner bespoke so remarkable a resignation, so profound a cer- 
tainty beforehand of being misunderstood, or even maligned, 
and gave so ostentatious a prophecy of forgiveness, that I was 
ready for almost anything in the way of mischievous sugges- 
tion. “ I have resolved not to be disturbed by it any further, 
because I can see that my only hope of safety lies in keeping 
quite calm and quiet. Doctor Mason and Nurse James, who 
went away, and the nurse who is now here, and one or two 
others whom I could name, have had instructions from Lord 
Worborough. The doctor was so foolishly^ candid as to tell me 
that my only chance of recovery lay in keeping quiet, and since 
he let that slip I have contrived perfectly to battle his lord- 
ship'^s intentions.’’^ 

“ And his lordship^s intentions are — 

“ Lord Worborough,’^ she answered, with a smile which ex- 
pressed at once knowledge of her own short-comings and for- 


252 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


giveness for this injurious husband, “ LordWorborough knows 
my infirmity of temper. I thought that very much more 
than probable. I thought of one or two of the horrible scenes 
Pole had sketched for me, and I recalled the exhibitions I my- 
self had seen. He has instructed his creatures to do their 
best to betray me into fits of violence, and his object, of 
course, was to bring about his own freedom. You know how 
anxious he has been to be rid of me, Mr. Denham. When that 
absurd and groundless report of my death was circulated, he 
made no inquiry. He set up a stone to my memory over the 
body of a stranger. 

I answered that I was intimately acquainted with the whole 
history of that episode, and she gave me just one swift side- 
long glance in quite the old fashion. It was as quick as a 
glance well could be. It lasted no longer than a flash of 
lightning, but it illuminated everything, just as a flash of 
lightning will. Her ladyship, however, was not playing to me 
alone. She had an audience of two, and I suppose she fancied 
that she was carrying half of it with her. She must have 
known beforehand that I knew too much to be cheated in that 
barefaced way. 

“ I have asked you,^^ she said, “ to carry a message to Lord 
Worborough, and you have promised. I inclined my head 
in silent assent to this, but I began to guess what the character 
of the message was to be, and to think it very unlikely that her 
husband would receive it at my hands. “You may tell him, 
if you please, she continued, “ that sickness has not had the 
effect upon me which he anticipated. I am a good deal sub- 
dued by it, and in place of being more easily angry, I find that 
I am growing patient. The doctor^s indiscretion was a great 
help to me, and Sister Constance helps me continually. You 
may tell Lord Worborough that I am armed against any an- 
noyance he may bring to bear upon me. I am resolved to 
live, and I am resolved to get strong enough to go to Wor- 
borough Court as soon as possible. 

Mary had taken a seat near the foot of the bed, and was 
sewing with apparent tranquillity, though the red spot which 
burned upon the pallor of her cheek told me something of 
what was going on within doors. 

“ That is the message you desire me to deliver to your hus- 
band I asked her. It would be futile to pretend that I was 
not angry, but it would have been more futile still by far to 
have shown anger there. I took a leaf out of her ladyship^s 
book, and was almost as meek and long-suffering in manner 
as herself. 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


253 


That is message/^ she responded. 

1 told her 1 would willingly do anything in my power to 
oblige hei\ “ But your ladyship will see,” 1 urged, “ that if 
I take this message — if I even so much as name it to him, I 
shall at least give myself the air of thinking it worth men- 
tion. 

“ You decline to take it, then?^^ Her voice was quite sweet 
and amiable; but 1 got another quick illuminating glance be- 
fore she spoke. 

‘‘ I am afraid,^’ I answered, that 1 must decline to take 
it.^ 1 can not even appear to share in your belief.'’^ 

Will you ask Lord Worborough to call upon me?^^ she 
asked, so that 1 myself may give, him the message?^'’ 

“ I must beg your ladyship^s pardon still,” 1 answered. 

“ Oh, my ladyship, my ladyship she said, in a tone of 
gentle irony, ‘‘ what has a poor stricken creature like myself 
to do with earthly titles of honor?” 

1 answered, “ What indeed!” in a tone as near her own as I 
could make it. It was not kindly, I dare say, but I was grow- 
ing a little sick of the savage farce she played, and was willing 
to end it as soon as might be. Mary glanced up at me with a 
startled and almost frightened look, and half arose as if in an- 
ticipation of an outburst. But Lady Worborough merely 
turned her head upon her pillows, and looked at me with a 
glance of amused intelligence. It was the very first sign of 
humor I had seen in her, and I was both relieved and pleased. 
I had regretted my words as soon as I had spoken them, but 
her ladyship was in the mind for self-control, and was evidently 
determined not to be shaken from it. 

So,” she said, ‘‘ you will not even ask Lord Worborough 
to come here?” 

“ To listen to that accusation? No, madame. I can not 
undertake to do it. Lord Worborough is in London, and if 
you have any serious reason for wishing to see him, I am sure 
he will come to you with all reasonable speed. But you are 
armed so strong in patience that you can afford to allow these 
wicked machinations to go on unnoticed,’^ 

“ I should like them to be put a stop to,” she said, with a 
resigned sigh at failure. “ I know my own infirmities, as I 
have told you. My temper is not of the best, even now.” 

I was wise enough to keep to myself my own opinions upon 
that matter, and when I had sat in silence for some time she 
stretched out her weak and wasted hand again with an expres- 
sion of tolerance and meekness which would have done credit 
to a saint, I was unregenerate enough to rejoice in the cer- 


254 


THE T^^EAKER VESSEL. 


tainty that she was greatly disappointed in not having made 
me angry, and that she was boiling inwardly beneath that 
sanctified calm of hers. I had a more legitimate ground for 
satisfaction in the fact that the interview had come to an end 
with no outbreak on either side. 

‘‘lam not angry at your refusal, Mr. Denham,’^ she said, 
“ though 1 am disappointed by it. I had hoped that you would 
take my message. I like you, and 1 hope' that we may see 
more of each other. 

This was a wish 1 could not echo, but 1 got over my leave- 
taking with as good a grace as possible, and left the house, glad 
that the ordeal was at an end. Walking homeward, I had 
time to think things over, and 1 came to two definite conclu- 
sions with respect to her ladyship^s condition and intentions. 
She had about as much belief in that story about Pole and the 
conspiracy between him, the doctor, and the nurses, as I my- 
self had. But the change in the manifestation of that re- 
markable temper was real, and had a real purpose. She had 
discovered that it was possible to get almost as much satisfac- 
tion out of the act of maddening other people as by madden- 
ing herself. 

It was so much more wholesome, so much safer in her pres- 
ent condition, that the discovery naturally tempted her toward 
experiment. Then, above all other things, she w^anted to get 
down to Worborough Court, and to establish her reign there. 
Thinking how brief her triumph must be, attended with how 
many pains of mind and body, I began almost to wonder at 
myself for having grudged it. When your enemy is strong 
and knows how to be harmful, and you have a right to dread 
his implacable, unsleeping hate, it comes natural to the heart 
to hate him in return; but when he lies vanquished and help- 
less, or even when his capacity for mischief is strictly measured 
and confined, you can begin to pity the gnawing miseries of 
his disappointment. I have disliked one or tw^o people very 
strongly in my time, but I have never hated anybody. I have 
thought sometimes with Hamlet that I was pigeon-livered and 
lacked gall to make oppression bitter. But I have known 
good haters — without loving them — and have, in a vague and 
shadowy way, no doubt, savored in imagination the bitterness 
of the gall which poisoned life to them. Of all people in the 
world I know none so pitiable. Hate is the true Tantalus 
torture. It can not be slacked. Of its very nature it refuses 
to be satisfied. To satisfy it were to kill it, and it craves for 
immortality, alike for its victim and itself. 1 am not speal;- 


THE* WEAKEK VESSEL. 


255 


ing of dislikes 'whicli pass for hatred, but of the real, royal 
thing itself. 

As for poor Lady Worboiiough, it was surely worth no man^s 
or womaM^s while to stir her venom, let her make what out- 
ward show of it she might. I am not master of the techni- 
calities of the case, but if 1 remember rightly what Dr. Mason 
told me, the paralysis was mounting, seizing little by little; 
like an , enemy advancing across a whole country, slowly, 
driving life before it step by step. Her general aspect, to the 
untaught eye, would have seemed all the while to improve with 
considerable regularity, and she herself was fully persuaded 
that 4ier ultimate recovery was certain if she could but repress 
those outbursts of passion which she now recognized as being 
dangerous to her. 

In the course of two or three weeks Mary brought intelli- 
gence of the doctor’s permission for the desired journey. We 
got news of clasped petitionary hands, and prayers and tears 
from Lady Worborough to Sister Constance. She would not, 
could not, go without her. She was bent on going, would 
brave death itself to go, but the great lonely friendless house 
frightened her. It was quite conceivable even then, though I 
did not realize it until later, that her ladyship’s lie had grown 
into a reality for her, and that she really dreaded to be left 
altogether alone among strangers for other than merely senti- 
mental reasons. 

Mary took the whole matter with that direct simplicity 
which was a part of her. 

“ 1 have promised to go with her,” she said, in answer to 
Clara, who at first was strongly opposed to the idea. “ If I 
had met her in another way, or had learned of her suffering 
in another way, it might have been different. I can not leave 
her now. I believe,” she added, frankly, “that I am the 
only creature in the world she cares for, and the only one she 
trusts. I must stay with her until the end.” 

It was so impossible, all things considered, to discuss the 
question, and the whole position of affairs was so unpre- 
cedented, that we were compelled to say very little about the 
decision. I received another message from Lady Worborough, 
requesting me to call upon her, but I was convinced that she 
was using me as a sort of instrument through which she might 
possibly play upon her husband, and at first I sent back word 
that I was otherwise engaged, and could not then find time to 
visit her. The message was repeated, this time through Mary. 

“ She wants John,” said Mary, turning upon Clara, “ to 
accompany us to Worborough Court. For my part I should 


^56 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


be glad if he would do it. I do not think that she will try to 
make things uncomfortable by the way. 

“ Go,"" said Clara. “ I should like to know that Mary was 
comfortably installed there. And mind, my dear ""-»-this was 
addressed to Mary, and spoken with much vivacity and deter- 
mination — ‘‘you are not to make a martyr of yourself down 
there. That woman is quite capable of asking you to accom- 
pany her down there for no other purpose than to make your 
life unbearable. And now I come to think of it, 1 shall be 
very glad if Lady Worborough has taken a fnncy to John and 
wants to see him often. I don"t care much what her purpose 
is if the freak only brings me pretty constant news of you. 
You will go and see Lady Worborough, John, as often as you 
are asked, and you will keep your eyes open and let me know 
the truth about what is going on down there. . I am not going 
to lose Mary, or have her hurt, for all the Lady Worboroughs 
in the world."" 

I called on Dr. Mason that evening, and learned from him 
that his permission for the journey had actually been given. 
The doctor who attended the case under him was to accom- 
pany the patient, and to spend a day or two with her. He 
would carry with him notes of the case, and instruct any local 
practitioner Lady Worborough might choose. There were 
three or four great houses within a radius of four or five miles, 
and a considerable number of wealthy residents, so that it was 
quite certain that there would be some really capable medical 
man in the neighborhood. 

During this time I saw but little of Pole. Notwithstanding 
the close friendship between us, it was impossible that he 
should be a visitor at my house during Mary"s stay there, and 
he had taken up his residence in a dreary little villa by the 
river a dozen miles from town. On his invitation, I visited 
him there the day before the intended emigration to Wor- 
borough. 

“ My wife,"" he said, “ has refused to sign the document of 
peace between us until she can sign it at Worborough. You 
are going down with her? I heard as much from the lawyer. 
Goldsmith is to be there to meet her. 1 shall take my seat in 
the House at the beginning of the session, and start on work 
of some kind. I have two or three ideas floating about in my 
mind, but I haven"t decided yet. Miss Delamere is well?"" 
He put the question with an odd abruptness which it was easy 
for me to understand. I told him all about her, and I told 
him also of the engagement his wife had attempted to lay 
upon me. It was one thing to tell him that I had refused the 


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267 


office, and another to have heen her ladyship^s messen^>‘er. 
“That would look a little Tike madness/^ he said, “ and I 
would rather think that she had not been altogether responsi- 
ble for herself all along. Mason tells me that her life is a 
question of months only, and it would help me to the state of 
mind I want to get into if I could think it was not herself who 
has done all the mischief. It^s a hard matter to trace respon- 
sibility at any time, and the people who sin are in the main 
the people who are punished. She has suffered enough for all 
her sins, even if she went to them with her eyes open, for they 
were of a sort which bring their own punishment. 

I believe that after this until the end, and beyond the end of 
that tragic episode, when he was happy and useful, and found 
full scope for the exercise of all his gifts, he never nourished 
an angry thought or spoke a bitter word about his wife. I 
had not been sure of my own wisdom in telling him the story, 
but since it persuaded him that she had all along been irre- 
sponsible, and since it helped him to forgive her, and to be 
tender and pitiful in his thoughts of her, I could hardly have 
done a wiser or more friendly act. 

Next day we started off, Mary, the young doctor, and I, ac- 
companying the invalid toward that installation for which 
Lady Worborough longed so passionately. Pole had sent his 
carriage to convey the patient to the railway station, and her 
eyes glittered with pride at the sight of the equipage and the 
liveried servants. There was another servant in waiting for us 
at the terminus, deputed to accompany us upon our journey, 
and at the few halting-places on the way he appeared at the 
door of the railway carriage to know if his services were in any 
way required. After each of these visits the poor woman 
brightened perceptibly, and when we had once passed Exeter 
her spirits mounted almost to fever heat. The sight of two 
other carriages waiting for her at the local station, and of 
more liveried servants, so excited her with pride and the sense 
of conquest that what with triumph and fatigue she had to 
wipe away a tear or two. 

She had been to Worborough Court before, but not under 
similar auspices. On her first visit she had conquered the 
place, as it were, by sudden stealth and stratagem, now she 
came like its mistress, and was received with honors which, to 
her eyes, must have seemed almost regal. She was carried to 
her own carriage and laid down in it amid the wondering gazes 
of a score of on-lookers and loungers, and then we were all 
borne swiftly and smoothly off, the young doctor and I bring- 
ing up the rear. The lodge gates swung open before us, and 


258 


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we drove up the long, curved avenue between the stately trees, 
which stood grim and gaunt a^inst the fading brightness of 
the upper skies. The house gleamed with lights, and the hall, 
from the outer dimness, shone with a golden splendor. The 
doctor leaped down from my sid.e to superintend the conduct 
of Lady Worborough to her room. She carried a fan in her 
hand, and as she was born6 past the lintel she stretched out 
her arm and struck it, as if to say that she claimed it for her 
own. 

She was extremely prostrated by the journey, but she rallied 
for the moment, and turned her face toward Mary with an 
exalted smile. 

“You are welcome, 'my dear,^^ she said, “ to Worborough 
Court. 


CHAPTEE XXXVIII. 

She was carried at once to the chamber which had been 
made ready for her, and I was left alone. The housekeeper 
personally conducted me to my room. She had been there in 
*the late Lord Worborough’s time, and she and I were already 
acquainted with each other. I thought she lingered about me 
unnecessarily, and supposed that she was very curious, and 
eager to talk if I had but given her an opening. I made no 
C9nversational advances, and she was too well" disciplined by 
long service to initiate operations, though 1 dare say it cost her 
a considerable effort to repress her desires that way. I sat for 
a long time alone, thinking of the paralyzed woman brought 
to live in that great, lonely house, and in .that solitary, miser- 
able splendor. There had been something melancholy from 
the first in the mere prospect of Pole^s accession to wealth and 
title, and she, poor thing, had been the sole cause of the 
shadow which rested on that brilliant fortune. Even she her- 
self became pitiable in the gloom for which she was herself 
responsible. She had only triumphed by force of her misery, 
and to have all and to enjoy nothing is surely a bitter and 
pitiable lot. I found my own thoughts such poor and unex- 
hilarating company that I was well pleased indeed to be joined, 
by the doctor.- He also had begun to find the place oppressive, 
and he confided to me the fact that though he had never been 
so handsomely lodged or paid in the whole course of his life, 
he would be glad when he could get back to places less mourn- 
ful, if less distinguished. 

Goldsmith, who started from town an hour or two after our 
arrival at Worborough, appeared next morning rather less 


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259 


glossy and smiling than usual, after a cold night^s journey, 
Pole’s lawyer traveled by the same train, but the two reached 
the Court by different vehicles, though within a few minutes 
of each other. It fell upon me to receive them both, and 
Goldsmith was evidently unhappy at my presence, which he 
could hardly have expected. When he had changed his dress 
and breakfasted, his native courage reasserted itself a little, 
and^ he made some faint overtures to talk. Pole’s man of 
business' was a very stately personage, who might himself have 
been the owner of the place, and he and Goldsmith were so far 
asunder that they might have been born in different planets. 
The little Jew solicitor was by no means as ready to recognize 
this difference as the' man of higher standing, but it existed, 
and it made an impression, even upon him. Pole’s lawyer 
was a little ruffled, in a Ipfty way, at meeting a person of Mr. 
Goldsmith’s aspect and manners, and once at least he gave 
him to understand in my hearing that their meeting bore an 
exclusively business character. 

“ Old cock’s a bit stuck-up, don’t you think. Bister Ded- 
ham?” said Goldsmith, appealing to me. He’s been longer 
in the professiod than I have, and I dare, say he has a more 
profitable connectiod; but a solicitor’s a gentleman, and no- 
body can be any more.” 

He was propitiatory with me, and ill at ease in the remem- 
brance of our last interview. 1 told him roundly that if Lord 
Worborough’s solicitor knew what I could tell him he would 
have refused the meeting altogether. 1 added that nothing 
but his lordship’s dread of scandal had saved Mr. 'Goldsmith 
from the ignominy of being struck from the rolls, and that I 
wondered somewhat at his audacity in coming there, even at 
Lady Worborough’s command. 

“ Well,” he said, with a sort of desperate resignation, ‘‘I 
shall never get anybody to understand what happened. You 
wait till you get Lady Worborough about you. Bister Dedham. " 
There isn’t much she couldn’t make you do if she set her wits 
to work about. She ain’t a bit like ad ordinary womad. Ad 
ordinary womad wouldn’t have let me idto such a risk. 
You’re no fool, you know. Bister Dedham, judging by the 
look of youi You’d dever have dreabt of taking on a risk like 
that. If anybody had told me / should do it I should have 
kicked him. I’ve kicked a man before to-day od a question of 
outraged honor. But Lady Worborough is exceptiodal. She’s 
a very rebarkable persod, is Lady Worborough.” 

Pole’s lawyer, as I could see, was anxious to get his business 
over and be gone, though since he could only catch the night 


260 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


train at earliest, and had no other affairs in the neighborhood, 
he was as well placed at Worborough Court as elsewhere. Her 
ladyship certainly appeared to think so, for she made no haste 
to see him. The morning was, for the season of the year, 
particularly mild and sunny, and a little before noon she 
caused herself to be carried from her rooms on the first-floor, 
and was set into a bath-chair, wliich had been by her, orders 
disinterred from the coach-house. It was a very ancient 
affair, and though it had been cleaned and furbished as com- 
pletely as the time permitted, it sent a certain ghostly odor 
abroad upon the clear wintery air. Nothing less would satisfy 
Lady Worborough than that I should push her about the 
graveled drive in this cumbrous and ancient vehicle. I re- 
ceived the request certainly with some surprise, and at first, as 
I confess, with a little auger; but it did not seem worth while 
to argue it, and I obeyed her wish. I had arranged already to 
go back to town with Pole^s lawyer, and since my stay was so 
extremely, brief, it seemed on the whole worth while to humor 
the stricken and self-willed creature. 

‘‘I want to drink in this lovely place, she said, when I 
presented myself in obedience to her wish. Push me to a 
little distance, please, so that I can admire the house. I feel 
very well and strong this morning, and the fresh air will do 
me good. I shall soon be walking about again; the doctors 
are quite confident of it. ” 

As a matter of fact the doctors were quite confident in an 
opposite opinion. Neither of them believed that she would 
ever walk again; but she so clung to her own belief, and so 
emphatically reiterated it in their presence, that she h^ to all 
appearance persuaded herself that they shared her view. She 
brooked no contradiction, and the slightest sign of it in respect 
to a desire so dearly cherished' as this would arouse a danger- 
ous paroxysm of anger. 

When I had wheeled her to a distance of a hundred yards 
from the house she asked me to turn her round. She was 
buried to the chin in a dark fur rug, and she wore a black 
bonnet trimmed with scarlet. The somber color of her sur- 
roundings and the bright scarlet ribbon between them threw 
her face into a strongly accented pallor. Her thinned features 
and bright dark eyes had an eerie and almost preternatural 
look. She called me to her side, and sat looking at the house, 
without speaking, for quite a considerable length of time. 
Then she turned her eyes upon me with a repetition of that 
same strange and exalted smile I had seen the niglit before. 

“ That is Worborough Court,"" she said, nodding her head 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 261 

almost imperceptibly, “ and I ” — with a repetition of the same 
slight gesture— “ am Lady Worborough.-’^ 

There was something so odd in the tone and in the words 
that I could not help looking at her rather keenly. She took 
note of this, and answered my look with another smile, which 
seemed to cover a meaning of some sort, though I could not 
divine ^it. 

“I am Lady Worborough,^^ she said, ‘‘and that is Wor- 
borough Court. Those two gentlemen at the windows are the 
lawyers, I suppose. Oh, yes, I recognize Mr. Goldsmith. 
Will you signal to them, if you please? Wave your hat to 
them. They are bound to see you.'’ 

I did as she requested, but the signal brought out Goldsmith 
alone. Pole’s lawyer had either not seen it or did not recog- 
nize it as being meant for him, or did not care to answer that 
informal summons. 

“ Wheel me a little further,” said her ladyship. “ They 
will follow.” 

I obeyed her again, and wheeled her away from the house 
with extreme slowness. Turning my head, I saw that Gold- 
smith was following us at a more rapid pace, and would soon 
overtake us. He came up with us in awhile, panting some- 
what, and her ladyship once more demanded to be turned 
round. 

“ That is my house, Mr. Goldsmith,” she said. “ I am 
pleased to offer you its hospitality. ” 

Goldsmith glanced at me, and ja. little later slipped behind 
the chair, and whispered: “ I say.” He said nothing further, 
but tapped his forehead significantly. I feigned to take no 
notice of him, and Lady Worborough asked in a cold, clear 
voice : 

“ What do you say?” 

Goldsmith, with a sidelong look of dismay at me, answered 
confusedly that it was a very beautiful mansion. 

“ I am" very glad,” she said, in a voice of satire, ‘‘ that it 
enlists your approval. Mr. JDenham, let Mr. Goldsmith take 
your place. Come and talk to me. Mr. Goldsmith, wheel 
me toward the lodge. Stop when I tell you. 1 want to secure 
as many points of view as possible. It is one thing to watch 
the house as you approach it and another to turn round and 
secure different points of view when you are going away. ” 

Goldsmith followed her directions, as I had done before him, 
turning and pausing when she bade him, and turning round 
and going on again when she bade him. At each survey of 
the house she named it— “ That is Worborough Court ”— in a 


262 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


f lacid triumph. I did my best not to look at Goldsmith, but 
knew that he was making faces to attract my attention, and 
whenever I did look his way he touched his forehead with a 
forefinger, and his lips inaudibly shaped some word, always 
the same word, as I could see, though I could not hear it. By 
and by, when we were within a little distance of the lodge, I 
suggested that it might be wise to go back again, and 5 to my 
astonishment, she consented. 

“ Turn me round, Mr. Goldsmith. The air is a little chilly. 
It is very kind of you, Mr. Denham, to be so careful of an in- 
valid* I am very much obliged to you, I am sure. 

There was a tone of mockery in this, as there was in most 
things she had said in my hearing but I was getting used to 
her by this time, and paid no heed. As we turned slowly 
round I saw for the first time that Mary was approaching us, 
and I supposed she came to warn her patient that it might be 
unsafe to stay too long in the open air. 

Well,^^ said Goldsmith, bringing the chair to a sudden 
standstill, that’s the rumiiiest start I ever knew in my life.” 

“ What is?” her ladyship demanded, without making an 
effort to turn. 

“ Why, that is,” Goldsmith answered. 

I made a gesture, and gave him a lof>k to silence him, but 
Lady Worborough observed me. 

“ Come here, Mr. Goldsmith,” she said. What is it you 
describe as a rum start?” 

He came round, staring in bewilderment from me to the 
advancing figure of Miss Delaniere, and Lady Worborough’s 
glance followed the -direction of his eyes. I had never guessed 
until that moment that Mary was known to Goldsmith, or 
had any reason to guess it. 

“ What is it,” she demanded, ‘‘ that you find surprising in 
the appearance of that lady?” 

I don’t know,” said Goldsmith, evidently bewildered by 
my gesture, and, as 1 can well guess, by the expression of my 
face. “ I don’t know that there’s anything surprising in the 
young lady. Only, she’s the last person id the world I should 
ever have expected to see here.” 

“ Indeed!” said her ladyship, with set eyebrows, and keen, 
glittering eyes. “ And why?” 

Goldsmith spread his hands abroad with a deprecatory 
gesture. 

‘‘ It’s no affair of mine,” he said. “ If she’s pleased to be 
here, and you like to have her here I’ve got dothing to say to 
it 


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263 


“ Are you mad?"^ she asked him, scornfully. 

‘^Dot much I ain^t,^" responded Goldsmith. “ If you 
choose to have' Miss Delamere about you, of all the yug ladies 
in the world — 

What?-’^ she shrieked, turning madly round on me, and 
tearing at the rugs which were folded- about her. The cry was 
so shrill and pierci^, so full of rage and amazement and 
terror jbhat I seemed'mever to have heard anything like it be- 
fore from human lips. Mary came forward swiftly in alarm 
at this wild cry, and the wretched woman, who had released 
her hands, waved them threateningly at her with a mad re- 
pulsion. 

“You will do yourself a mischief,^ ^ I -cried, and made an 
effort to return the furs to their position. She repulsed me 
with an unexpected strength, and then clutching the rug 
tightly in her thin, ungloved hands, sat, wordless at first, 
glaring at the new-comer. Then her lips began to move over 
the white teeth clinched below them, and in a little while she 
spoke with a self-repression which was no less than horrible to 
look at. The white teeth were never opened, and she had a 
look of thinking that she had them fast set in something she 
was eager to rend. 

“ So you are Miss Delamere,^^ she said. “You have came 
here watching to see me die that you may marry my husband. 
That is the meaning of your Christian charity and goodness, 
is it? You have come down to this great, lonely house to 
poison me. Oh, you traitress! You wicked, smiling traitress. 
If 1 could get at you I would pull you into pieces with my 
hands. 

At first Mary was so bewildered at the cry, and so over- 
whelmed by this mad accusation, that she could answer noth- 
ing. In the very midst of its impossibility the accusation itself 
had a hideous kind of probability in it. Even to me, the fact 
that it could not in any distorted dream have entered my 
mind, carried no weight against it. It was hideous and un- 
imaginable and beyond all conceivable madnesses untrue, and 
yet I really think that for the moment it struck as heavily as 
if it had been truth itself. 

“ You must have been a . very wicked woman. Lady Wor- 
borough,^^ said Mary, tremblingly, “to think such thoughts. 
You can not really think them. You do not really think 
them. John she stretched out her hands to me, and I 
took them in my own — “ do you think that she can really be- 
lieve a thing like that of me — of anybody?’' 

“ You shall take nothing from the house,’’ said Lady Wor- 


264 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


borough, still speaking with her teeth clinched together, and 
the same dreadful set expression of her rage. ‘‘You shall not 
go from here until everything you have is searched. We shall 
find poisons, and there is a law to punish you. Oh, you 
wicked, wicked, smiling traitress!’^ 

“What are you talking aboutj*^’ said Goldsmith. “No- 
body wants to poisod you.'’^ 

“ Are you in the plot?^^ she demanded^ turning her eyes 
upon him. 

“ Yes,^' said Goldsmith. “ I suppose I^m in about as much 
as there is of it. You’d better get id out of the cold at odce. 
You’ll be catching your death if you don’t, and thed there’ll 
be no need for anybody to poisod you. Put that rug up, and 
let me wheel you into the house. ” 

Goldsmith’s stolid indifference did something toward calm- 
ing the rest of us. His disdain for her ladyship’s suspicion 
•was so real and unaffected that even she was a little disarmed 
by it. But she had at least a woman whom she recognized as 
a rival in her presence, and having never been easily placable 
in her own life was not likely to allow herself to be readily 
pacified here. 

“ You shall go,” she said, “ but you shall be searched be- 
fore you go. You meant to poison me. Why else should you 
come here?” 

“ I never asked to come,” Mary answered, stooping gently 
over her, her voice and manner in strangest contrast with 
those of the woman she addressed. “I came because you 
asked me, because I .thought you clung to me, and would 
rather have me near you than anybody else you knew. I came 
because I vv^as sorry for you. ’ ’ 

Lady Worborongh looked darkly at her without answering. 

“ Go on,” she said, dryly. “ Wheel me back to the house. 
You go before ” — addressing Mary. “ I won’t lose sight of 
you. You meant to poison me.” 

Goldsmith set the chair in motion, and Mary and I went on 
a mere trifle in advance, a foot or two only. 

“ Keep your eye upon her. Goldsmith,” said her ladyship. 
“ She wants to drop behind and run away.” 

Mary paused for an instant and laid her hand_ upon the 
wheeled chaise in which the poor thing sat. 

“ I do not know,” she said with great gentleness, “ how you 
can have thoughts so foolish and so wicked. I will go, if you 
wish it, and if you wish it you may have everything belonging 
to me examined. ” 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


265 


Lady Worborough shot out a hand and clutched her by the 
wrist. 

“Go on!^^ she cried to Goldsmith. “I have her now. 
She won’t get away from me!” ^ 

Mary laid her free hand upon the hand which held hei% and 
I saw that her eyes filled suddenly with tears. 

“ Can*t you believe, poor thing, that I was sorry for you — 
that I was very, very sorry for you?” 

Her ladyship suddenly released her, with a curt command 
to go on in front again. One of Mary’s tears had brimmed 
oyer, and had fallen on her hand. She brushed it away hur- 
riedly, as though it had scalded her, and folded herself tightly 
in her rugs. I offered my arm to Mary, seeing that she was in 
need of some support, and begged her not to* give this mon- 
strous accusation a moment’s thought. 

“ I am not troubled by it,” she answered. “ How could I 
be? But I am very sorry for her. ” 

I said something about its being a poor reward for all her 
kindness, but, to my momentary amazement, she answered 
that it was not unnatural, and, turning round upon me, de- 
manded if she had been in the wrong to come here. I told 
her very warmly that she had acted throughout the whole mat- 
ter like a saint, and after that we went on to the house with- 
out exchanging a word. I had known minutes before that the 
servants had heard Lady Worborough’s., first cry, for they had 
gathered in a knot at the hall door. Some of them were still 
standing there when we arrived. They were silent and re- 
spectful, but attentive. It was easy to see that they were 
curious as to the cause of the scream, and the set face of their 
mistress, and the traces of Miss Delamere’s tears must have 
been enough in themselves to confirm their natural suspicion 
of a scene. I dare say that I myself showed some sign of dis- 
turbance, though I did not think of this at the time. The in- 
validrchair which we had brought with us from London was 
standing in the hall, and was ready on our arrival. 

“Lift me out,” said her ladyship, “and carry me to my 
rooms. Let that woman go on before, and watch her, so that 
she can not run away.” 

I conducted Mary up the stairs, and left her at the door of 
Lady Worborough’s apartments. We waited there in the 
corridor until the invalid was brought up in her chair, then 
the door was thrown open, and Mary entering before her, she 
was carried into the first chamber. 

“ Come in, Mr. Denham,” she said to me in passing. 
“ Come in. Goldsmith. Stay here, all of you.” 


266 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


Goldsmith had followed the chair upstairs, hat in hand, and 
now stood the most self-possessed of any one of us, waving the 
hat to and fro, and grinning, as if amused, though his smile 
was certainly a little uneasy. 

‘‘ Send everybody here,^^ cried her ladyship to one of the 
servants when he had entered. “ Send Lord Worborough's 
lawyer here and all the servants. Go some of you to this 
woman's room, and bring down everything she brought into 
this house. Everything! Do you hear?" 

Lady Worborough," I said as quietly and as firmly as I 
could, I will not permit you to place any indignity upon this 
lady." 

I turned upon Goldsmith and the servants, and bade them 
leave the room, and, a little to my surprise, they obeyed me. 
I had been there before in the old lord's time as his guest, and 
in close intimacy with their present master. A good many of 
the old servants had been re-engaged, or had never actually 
been discharged, and one of the men who had assisted in carry- 
ing her ladyship upstairs remembered me. It was he who led 
the way, and the others followed him. Her ladyship raved, 
and commanded them to stay, and one of them did actually 
linger until I pushed him gently out from the room. When 
our accuser had gone quiet again I told her that since Miss 
Delamere was pleased, in face of this monstrous acjcusation, to 
have her belongings examined, I had no objection to offer. 
The examination, however, should be made decently and in 
order. It was in itself sufficiently shameful and insulting, and 
nobody should witness it except they two, the doctor and the 
woman appointed to make the search. She, after a long bat- 
tle, consenting to this, 1 rang for Lady Worborough's maid, 
and instructions were given to her to gather the whole of Miss 
Delamere's belongings, and to bring them to that room. Next 
1 dispatched a message for the doctor, and he and the maid 
arriving at almost the same instant, I left the four together. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

1 DO not remember to have been often so angry and so 
grieved at once as this scene had made me. I wished to cool 
myself, and walking straight into the open air, I encountered 
Goldsmith, who had lighted a big cigar, and was now stag- 
gering with it on the drive with an eye to the impression pro- 
duced upon the domestics by his raiment and his jewelry. 

What's the meaning of all this. Bister Dedham?" said 
the little man. “ What's it all about?" 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 267 

I asked him in return how he came to know Miss Delamere, 
and he beckoned me on one side. 

“ Mrs. Pole/^ he said, “ set me to work to find out whether 
her husband was at all in cobbunication with the lady. I^m 
one of those sort of med, Bister Dedham, who want to do a 
thing thoroughly when they do it at all, and I wasn^t goig to 
have a lady watched udless I knew her myself. I went down 
and had a look* at her. I went dowd two or three times, and 
had a look at her. Charbing yug lady, ain^t she? 1 think, 
you know, that Lord Worborough displayed uncobbon good 
taste. 

1 told him that I did not wish to listen. to his opinion upon 
that question. 

‘‘ That^s just as you like,^^ he answered, “ but IVe got the 
opidiod all the same. I went dowd to see her, because 1 foud 
out that the fools had followed you instead of goig after Pole. 
But look here! What's the move? What's she want waiting 
on Lady Worborough? I suppose she wants to get a dotion of 
how long she'll last." 

Perhaps if I had been in less heat of temper than 1 was, I 
should not have answered him at all; but being angry already, 
and freshly angered by his coarseness, 1 told him that Miss 
De^mere had nursed. Lady Worborough simply and purely be- 
cause she was a saint by nature. 

“1 ain't so green as that," said Mr. Goldsmith. No, 
Bister Dedham, that cock won't fight; not with me, adyhow." 

It is not of much use to assault a man for being himself, 
but Goldsmith tempted me sorely. I moved away from him 
and walked up and down alone, aw^e that the servants were 
discussing the curious incidents of a quarter of an hour ago, 
and that they were consumed by curiosity. In a little while 
one of them emerged from the hall and came directly toward 
me. He was charged with a message from Miss Delamere, 
who desired at once to see me. 1 found her in a room neigh- 
boring Lady Worborough's. The doctor was with her, and 
was standing over her in an attitude expressive of embarrassed 
sympathy. 

“You must take me away at once," she said, agitatedly. 
“ I can not stay here after what has happened." 

‘‘ I wonder that you submitted to such an indignity," said 
the doctor. “ Without your express charge I would not have 
stood by to witness it. 1 have been thinking for a day or two 
past that Lady Worborough is not entirely responsible for her 
actions, and the last ten minutes has confirmed me. " 


zes 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


I asked if her ladyship gave any sign of being convinced of 
the falsehood of her supposition, and he answered, “ NonO/^ 

“We left her in a towering rage,^^ he said. “ She will do 
herself a mischief. 

It was obvious that the first and only thing was to move 
Mary with all possible expedition from the house. She herself 
had already given instructions for the packing of her baggage, 
and I left her for a moment only to arranga about my own, 
and to order a vehicle for the little hotel in the village, near 
the station. When 1 returned she had almosk’ altogether re- 
covered her self-possession, and we waited quietly until we 
were informed that our joint orders had been fulfilled. Then 
we drove away. 1 thought it wisest to make no allusion to 
what had happened, and Mary herself spoke of it but once. 

“ I am very sorry for her,'’^ she said then. “ It must be 
very horrible to live with such thoughts about one’s fellow- 
creatures. I should never have chosen to nurse her, but it 
was not left to me to make the choice.” 

The carriage set us down with our belongings at the little 
hotel, and we were shown into a comfortless, fireless room 
there. We had four hours to wait for the train, and when, 
in obedience to our instructions, a fire was lighted, the chim- 
ney smoked so badly that, we had to throw open door and win- 
dows, and to sit, as it were, in the open air. Altogeth^ it 
was a cheerless waiting. The hotel was very small, but it 
was at least four times bigger than there had been any reason- 
able ground for making it, and it was no more homely than a 
desert. When the solitary waiter of the establishment, who 
looked as bored as Eobiuson Crusoe must have felt, walked 
about the unclothed corridor, he made such echoes there in 
the uninhabited and, I suppose, unfurnished solitudes about 
him, that I felt as if we were in some house of huge propor- 
tions, some Castle of Otranto, with a lonely giant footstep 
wandering up and down in it. The waiter was shy of stran- 
gers, and so unaccustomed to them that he was embarrassed 
by our arrival. There was absolutely nothing to read in the 
place, and neither of us was in the mood for conversation. So 
we waited dismally enough, and anything, however slight, that 
happened in the road on which our windows looked became an 
nbject of contemplation, and took an exaggerated interest. It 
was not in the least surprising, therefore, that we should both 
have caught early the sound of a horse’s hoofs, going appar- 
ently at a headlong gallop. The noise traveled with the wind, 
and came nearer with great rapidity. I stationed myself at 
the window, and to my considerable astonishment, the doctor. 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


m 


followed closely by a groom, appeared in sight. The two 
checked their horses immediately below me, and I ran down- 
stairs to meet them. 

I hardly have the cheek, said the young doctor, speak- 
ing rather pantingly, “ to tell you what I have come for.^^ 
He had ridden like an unaccustomed horseman, and was blown 
by his exertions. ‘‘ One of the carriages is coming after us, 
and Lady Worborough wants Sister Constance to return. She 
doesn'T merely want her to do it, but she^s actually wild about 
it. You know enough about her to know what she^s like, 
when she wants anything. ^ ^ 

“ She has utterly thrown over that mad suspicion, then?^' 
I asked. 

“ Completely, for the moment,^’ the doctor answered. 

She declares that Sister Constance is an angel, and that she 
herself is a fiend. She says that she never believed it at all 
for an instant, but that she was tempted to say it simply be-, 
cause Sister Constance was so good and beautiful that she 
hated her for it and was jealous of her. That’s a problem,” 
the young doctor added, “ for some men’s reading, but it cer- 
tainly isn’t for mine.” 

I could do no less than take these strange and unexpected 
tidings to Mary. The doctor mounted with me, but left me 
to tell the tale. 

“ I feel impertinent,” he said when 1 had told it, “ in com- 
ing here at all. 1 should feel intolerably impertinent if I were 
to say a word to influence you, but all the same — ” 

He paused there, and made a little apologetic gesture as he 
checked himself. 

You think,” Mary asked him, “ that it will be better for 
me to go?” 

It will certainly be better for her,” the doctor answered. 

Of course you know that she makes a very violent display of 
any emotion. But she seemed quite dangerously agitated 
when I left her just now. If you could possibly persuade 
yourself — ” 

He paused once more, and made again that little gesture of 
apology with both hands. 

“ I will go,” Mary answered, ‘Mf I can be of service.” 

‘‘You have always had an influence over her from the 
first,” the doctor answered. “ Pray don’t think me impudent; 
I can’t help saying how good you are.” 

His eyes sparkled and his cheek flushed. He was obviously 
very much in earnest, and if he could have dared would have 
said more. He had not witnessed her sweet and noble patience 


.270 


THE WEAKEB VESSEL. 

all these weeks for nothing, aud I had more than once sus- 
pected him of setting a higher value upon her than was quite 
consistent with his happiness. He never spoke a word, as far 
as I know, to indicate as much, but he had a worshipful way 
of following her about with his eyes which looked significant to 
me. Mary was a little embarrassed by his vivacity, but the 
sound of carriage-wheels came as a distraction, and we all 
three went to the window. The young medico blushed at her 
silence, and looked a trifle guilty, as if he felt that it reproved 
him. 

We drove back to Worborough Court without delay, leaving 
the instructions for our luggage to be sent on afterward, and 
the doctor and the groom tore on ahead to carry the news of 
our return. 

Come with me to her ladyship^s room when we arrive,^^ 
said Mary, as we were driven along. “1 am afraid of a scene, 
and your presence may help to keep her quiet. 

The servants who were present at our arrival received us 
with an alacrity which seemed to indicate to my mind that 
they knew something of the story. I supposed then, and 
actually learned afterward, that Goldsmith had been talking. 
Mary had spent but a day within the. house, but her sWeet face 
And gentle ways had begun to tell even in that short time, as 
they did everywhere and always. 

It is not an easy thing to analyze and proportion one^s affec- 
tions. I have been fortunate enough, on my way to middle 
age, to .have known and cared for a round half dozen of lovable 
people, which 1 take to be a rather unusual allowance for one 
man. One^s affections differ, of course, in kind, although 
they may be almost equal in intensity. My wife is absolute- 
ly aware of my opinion and sentiment, and shares it with me 
thoroughly and without a sign of jealousy — a rare and pleasing 
characteristic in a woman. So far as my experience carried 
me, 1 believed Mary Delamere to have been the best woman in 
the world. She never had need to search for affection, but 
found it offering itself everywhere spontaneously. I took — at 
this period especially — a tender pride in her, such as I suppose 
a brother feels for a sister. The pleased willingness of the 
servants was, I believe, more agreeable to me than to her. It 
rejoiced me to know that people loved her; and when any 
phlegmatic creature, as sometimes happened, appeared insensi- 
ble to her charm and goodness, I was angered. In plain fact, 
love me and love my Mary Delamere was a prime article in my 
creed, which I could hardly have sacrificed to please anybody. 

The housekeeper^ among others, awaited our arrival, and 


THE WEAKEK VESSEL, 


271 


came forth with something of a kindly bustle, saying that her 
ladyship was especially anxious to see Sister Constance at once. 
Wer found the invalid lying where we had left her, and her face 
showed evident signs of recent tears. Her eyes were red and 
swollen, and her magnificent black hair all wildly disarranged. 
At the moment of our entrance she stretched out her arms 
imploringly toward Mary, with a strange moaning noise which 
I thought eloquent at once of joy and of repentance. Mary 
took the* outstretched hands in her own and stooped a little 
over her, but the poor thing dragged her hysterically to her 
knees, and threw both arms about her, kissing her and crying 
over her in an almost frantic way. This went on for a minute 
or two, and at first Mary made a gentle effort to disengage 
herself. Finding it useless, she submitted to these wild caresses, 
and putting her own arms about the patient, drew her to her 
breast. At this Lady W orborough cried at first more violently 
than ever; but in awhile the gentle embrace soothed her, and 
she lay there, heaping all manner of apology and protestation 
upon her recovered companion. 

“ You are an angel,'*'’ she said over and over again. “ An 
angel! an angel! an angel! How could you come back to 
me? If anybody had treated me in such a way I should have 
killed her. I should have hated her for ever and ever and 
ever. Oh, my wicked heart! my wicked heart! What makes 
me hate people so? 1 have always hated people, I have 
always hated myself for doing it. Why does God make us to 
be so unhappy ?^^ 

She grew quieter by degrees, and Mary had a way with her 
which nobody else seemed to know the secret of. 

“ I shall never forget it,^^ said the unhappy woman. “ I 
shall nver forgive myself. 1 shall carry the memory of it to 
my grave. 1 knew, when I said it, it was a wicked lie. I had 
to say it. I have no power over my tongue when I am 
angry. 

I was slipping silently from the room, seeing that there was 
not the slightest necessity for my presence there, and thinking 
that she might be calmer in my absence, when she called me 
by name, and begged me not to go away. 1 was going, 
she said, because 1 hated her. Everybody hated her, except 
the one creature in the world who had most reason. 

“ And you donT hate me, dear?^'* she said, addressing 
Mary. “ I know you donT, although you have a right to.^^ 

I besought her not to think that I bore her any hatred; and, 
indeed, making all possible allowances for her explosive and 
capricious nature, her penitence and her affection for the 


%n 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


woman she had wronged were so sincere that she touched me 
nearly. That slow- burning, passionate heart of hers had not 
been subdued to penitence and apology without an awful in- 
ward struggle, and I knew it. She held out her hand to me 
very feebly, and I took it in my own. 

“You donT hate me? she asked. “You love my hus- 
band, and you donT wish me dead?’"’ 

I could only answer that 1 was glad to know she cared; that 
I was extremely sorry for her, and that I thanked her with ail 
my heart for what she had just said to Miss Delamere. 

“ But you hate me,’ ^ she insisted. “You hate me. You 
must hate me.” 

“ My poor dear Lady Worborough,” I answered, “ why 
should anybody hate you now?” 

“ Ah!” she answered, with a great sigh, “ 1 suppose you 
can all afford to forgive me. I sha’n’t trouble you long, I 
know. I’ve lied about -that as well. I won’t see Waiter, 
mind you. I’m not going to make things up with him. I’m 
not so weak as that yet, and never shall be. It was all his 
own fault. If he had beaten me, as I deserved, when I first 
broke out, we might have been happy always. ” 

There was no reply possible to this astonishing statement, 
though it might have been true enough to an exceptional sort 
of feminine human nature. 

“ You will overexcite yourself again,” Mary said, gently, 
“ if you talk too much. Let us stay here together quite quiet- 
ly, and say nothing. It will be better to go away, John, be- 
cause Lady Worborough is really in need of quiet.” 

“ My name is Adelaide,” said her ladyship, with a touch of 
her habitual willfulness and irony in the tone of her voice. 
Then, with a sudden change, “ Call me by it. Please do call 
me by it. You hate me, Mr. Denham, all the same. You 
wish me dead. ” 

“ Go away, John,” said' Mary, decisively. “ I am sending 
him away,” she added, “ because you must not excite yourself 
—Adelaide.” 

Her ladyship gave a little gasping sob in answer to the 
name, a suppressed cry of pleasure and of affection. The day- 
light was fading by this time, and the fire was already begin- 
ning to cast a reddish tinge upon objects prominent in the 
room, making the shadows deeper by contrast. A great ex- 
panse of quiet country lay visible beyond the pale oblong of the 
single window of the room, and the red glow of the fire made 
the landscape dim and ghostly. I stole out of the room on 


THE WEAKER YESSEL. 273 

tiptoe, and as 1 turned to draw the door behind me, I saw the 
two clinging to each other. 


CHAPTER XL. 

PoLE^s lawyer was beginning to be impatient, and I had 
not left Mary and Lady Worborough more than ten minutes at 
the outside when one of the servants came to me with a mes- 
sage from him. He was^iafraid of missing the up train, and 
was angered at the unnecessary delay. I told him as much as 
1 cared to tell of what had happened, and of the momentary 
condition of affairs, and he consented to wait another twenty 
minutes before sending in a message. This, 1 thought, would 
give her ladyship time to collect herself, and in her softened 
humor it was quite possible that she might be willing to give 
less trouble than usual. It was plain enough that she had 
already kept the lawyers waiting simply to assure them and 
herself of her own importance. Goldsmith had no other affairs 
likely to be as profitable as this, but the other man was differ- 
ently situated, and had reasons for desiring to get away quickly. 

At the end of the twenty minutes a servant was dispatched 
with a respectfully worded message. Mary herself returned 
with the answer. Lady Worborough, after the excitement of 
the day, had grown alarmingly faint and weak, and had just 
fallen asleep. She did not think it advisable to awake her. 
It was certain that most healthy people would have found the 
wild excitement into which she had been plunged more than a 
little trying, and to an invalid as she was the day. was certain 
to have been really dangerous. The lawyer hummed and 
hawed, but finally resigned himself, and sat down to write a 
lengthy letter of instruction to his staff. Mary went back 
quietly to her patient, and the hours went by in great dullness. 
I myself should have returned to town by the late train, and 
was* indeed prepared to do so, but for an encounter with the 
doctor, who came with a face of great gravity to consult me. 

“ I have just been to see her ladyship, he said. “ She had 
slept for an hour when she awoke, and frightened Sister Con- 
stance by her extreme languor and feebleness. I don't like 
the look of things at all, and I can't accept the responsibility 
of the case alone. I shall send a telegram to Doctor Mason 
detailing the symptoms, and leaving it to him to come down if 
he thinks them sufficiently grave, and I shall wire to Exeter. " 
He mentioned the name of a well-known physician there, and 
added: “ He is almost as good as anybody, and he can get 
down here by the local train by midnight." 


274 


THE WEAKEK VESSEL. 


You think things really serious enough for this?^^ I asked 

him. 

I think things very serious indeed/^ he answered. “We 
have had two or three hours of almost uninterrupted raving, 
and she is not in a state to stand it.'’ ^ 

1 decided at least to await the arrival of the physician from 
Exeter, and by the messenger who carried the doctor '’s tele- 
gram I sent a dispatch to Clara, apprising her of my resolve 
and the reasons which inspired it. 

The doctor, the two men of law, and I dined together, and 
made a ^rave party. Goldsmith had heard the news, and 
showed more feeling than I had expected, 

“ ITl te^l you what it is, gedtlemen,^’ said Goldsmith, look- 
ing from one to the other of us, “ this is neither more nor less 
thad a judgment. That’s what it is — a judgment. You may 
think it’s only a coidcidence, but that ain’t my way of looking 
at it. ” The doctor asked him what he meant. “ You don’t 
know the story?” said Goldsmith. “ Well, it ain’t ady busi- 
ness of mine to tell it to you. Bister Dedham knows the story, 
and he understads what I’m talking about.” 

I understood more than that. I comprehended perfectly 
Mr. Goldsmith’s unwillingness to make anything but a veiled 
allusion to that history in the presence of a respectable mem- 
ber of his own profession. Pole’s lawyer would certainly have 
refused to sit at the same table with him, had he been aware 
of the facts of that strange episode. I was not proud of Mr. 
Goldsmith’s society myself, but I could not very well evade it 
at the time. . 1 occupied myself for awhile by thinking what 
that eminently respectable practitioner would say and do if I 
should unveil Goldsmith’s secret to him then and there. 
When, after dinner. Goldsmith button-holed me apart, and 
started anew his theory that Lady Worborough^s disaster was 
a j udgment, 1 had been thinking so warmly of his scoundrelly 
participation in her terrible plot that I felt constrained to ask 
him to address me as rarely as possible. 

“ It’s pretty bitter on a cove,” said Goldsmith; “ you’d have 
done it yourself if you’d had that womad standig over you.” 

He went away, however, and even seemed a little depressed 
by my disapproval. 

The doctor spent most of his time in her ladyship’s apart- 
ments. She had been got to bed, and was now lying there in 
a state of marked prostration. 1 saw him only once before 
midnight, and then his looks were so somber, an& his words so 
few that I was certain he thought the aspect of the case to be 
growing graver. Mary, during these hours, 1 did not see at 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


275 


all, for she remained constantly in attendance upon her patient. 
It was half an hour after midnight when the physician from 
Exeter arrived. I think he was the most reserved and guarded 
person I had ever met. He refused to commit himself to any 
opinion, hopeful or despairing. He did not even say that her 
ladyship’s position was critical, but simply decided to wait and 
watch. On this unsatisfactory no-verdict I went to bed, but I 
found myself unable to sleep, and after tossing to and fro for a 
couple of hours I got up again and partly dressed myself. 
The materials for a fire lay ready in the grate. 1 set a light 
to them, and wrapping myself snugly in a dressing-gown, sat 
staring at the blaze, and allowed my thoughts to wander where 
they would. They never wandered far from Lady Worborough 
and those who were most intimately about her. 1 thought a 
good deal of that striking coincidence which Goldsmith re- 
garded as evidence of a judgment. The woman whose body 
had been passed off as her own, and whom she had pretended 
to identify as herself, had been injured in the same manner, 
and had been carried to the same hospital. But I am not a 
believer in miraculous interpositions of that kind. 

I had brought no books with me, and time crawled so slow- 
ly, and my own thoughts grew so dreary, that at last I decided 
to steal into the library, which was at the far end of the corri- 
dor in which my bedroom was situated. Lady Worborough’s 
apartments were about midway. I lighted a candle, and look- 
ing out, saw the doctor in the act of leaving his patient’s room. 
The light 1 carried attracted his attention, and he moved to- 
ward me. We met half-way, and he looked graver and more 
anxious than ever. 

The pulse is feebler,” he said; ‘‘ the temperature is lower. 
I don’t like things at ail.” 

‘‘ What does your colleague say?” I asked. 

“ He is reserved, but he doesn’t look confident. I am in- 
clined to think he will wire for Mason. ” 

I told him of my inability to sleep, and asked him to let me 
know if the change became more marked. He promised this, 
and I went on to the library. Having secured a book or two 
there, I returned to my chamber, and sat down to read, with 
such excellent -effect that when I had gone steadily through a 
dozen pages I had not the remotest idea of the meaning of a 
single phrase. I knew that I had been reading diligently, 
/but my mind was busy with other things, and refused to take 
; cognizance of the message the eyes brought it. Having tried 
again, and having, by dint of resolution, fastened my mind to 
the first paragraph, I found myself at the end of the third page 


2'^6 . THE WEAKER TESSEL. 

in the same position as before; so I gave up the effort, and my 
mind went wandering again in the mazes of fantastic waking 
dreams. 1 came out of them once to replenish the fire, and 
again when my candles flickered in the sockets and went out. 
The room 1 sat in was cozy and home-like enough, and the 
fire gave a light which would have been clear enough to read 
by if I had been so minded. But I felt eerie and alone, and 
the sense of the likelihood of approaching death laid a chill 
upon my heart. The shadow feared of men seemed in the 
house already,, and touched me where I sat. 

Suddenly I heard a cautious footstep in the corridor and a 
light tap upon my door. It was the doctor. 

“ There is no doubt now,^^ he whispered. “ She is sink- 
ing.’" 

“ Is she conscious?” I asked. 

“She is conscious,” he answered, “but she is suffering 
from what we call aphasia. She has tried several times to 
speak, but she can not use the words she wants. Her phrases 
are unintelligible.” 

I told him that Lord Worborough ought, with as little delay 
as possible, to be informed of her condition. The local phy- 
sician would know the country, and could tell us how best to 
dispatch a telegram to town. The young doctor went back 
to consult him on this theme, and returned with the message 
that a man was all night on duty at the railway station, and 
would probably be able to dispatch a message. I had assured- 
ly nothing better to do, and I decided on going there myself. 
I completed my toilet and set out. One of the servants 
offered to provide me with a lantern, and I went round to the 
stables with him to secure it. ’ The night was pitch-dark, and 
so absolutely without a sound, that more than once between 
the house and the lodge I felt impelled to pause and listen. 
The silence hummed in my ears, and 1 was glad to break it 
by the noise of my own footsteps. The gates were closed, and 
I had to awake the lodge-keeper, who came down in a state of 
great alarm. When I had told him my errand he was eager 
to lake it upon himself, but I knew the road as well as he, and 
declined his services. It was better to be walking on, even in 
that monotonous, unchanging little circle of light with the 
dense black of the night about me, than to be doing nothing, 
and sitting in the house with that grim presence growing 
tangible. 

The man at the railway station had nothing to do but to 
signal the coming and going of luggage trains, and to adjust a 
point or two. He had his telegraphic signal, of course, in the 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


m 


box with him, but that was of no avail. The instrument used 
for the trangmission of messages was locked up in the station. 
So far as the man knew, the station-master was the only per- 
son who knew how to work it. There was nothing for it, 
therefore, but to awaken that functionary, and to* trust his re- 
spect for the great house to secure his good-will and assistance. 
I got his address from the pointsman and went out in search 
of him. I lost my way for awhile, and went stumbling about 
the village without finding a creature of whom I could inquire, 
until at last I lighted upon a man with a cart, who gave me 
the necessary information. 

^ When I had found the station-master, he was extremely 
civil and obliging and eager to be of service. We went dowm 
to the station together, and he signaled for a long time with- 
out securing an answer. At last, when we were almost on the 
point of despair, the gong set up a great clanging, and we 
knew that we had secured communication. Five minutes 
later I was back in the dark again, walking toward the court. 
The station-master had informed me that if his lordship got 
the telegram within an hour, he could secure a train as far as 
Bristol, could there take up another after an hour and a half^s 
waiting, and coul^ so reach the village three hours earlier than 
by the exf^ress. I had tacked this information to my mes- 
sage, and was certain that Pole would act upon it if he re- 
ceived it in time. I felt very strongly that if it were possible 
he ought to see his wife before she took leave of the world. 
Death clears all scores, and on his side there had, all things 
considered, been but little rancor. What there might be, I 
knew him well enough to know, would be buried now forever. 
I was more than two hours away, and it was still pitch-dark 
when I returned. There was no marked further change in 
Lady Worborough's condition, but her attendants thought her 
just a little feebler, and had no hope at all that she would 
rally. Mary, so the young doctor told me, was sitting at her 
bedside, and for hours past the dying woman had been holding 
her by the hand. 

“ That^s a curious little bit of heroism and endurance, in its 
way,^^ he said. “ Did you ever try to sit for hours in one posi- 
tion? It^s a great task. At times it^s something of a tort- 
ure. It’s one of those things that women will do. She may 
have to ppt up with hours more of it.” 

The night crawled on wearily, with its silent, stealthy com- 
ings and goings, its brief whispered colloquies, its monotonous 
questions and replies. 

“ Anything as yet?” 


278 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


Nothing.-’^ 

Sometimes the mere lifting of the eyebrows gave the ques- 
tion, and a grave negative sign of the head the answer. It 
seemed as if the dawn would never break, but after intermina- 
ble waiting ’the windows began to show a ghastly gray and 
lightened slowly, until at last the world was awake again. The 
dull, windless dawn was in keeping with the thoughts which 
filled me. The sky and the landscape that brooded under it 
looked alike cold and desolate, and there was a gloom upon 
the day. There is a mysterious tie between men and nature at 
such times, which'^makes her seem to deride or sympathize with 
our moods as a sentient thing might. All the while poor Lady ^ 
Worborough lay slowly dying, and the woman she Jiad plotted 
to shame and agonize sat by her like some pitying angel, nurs- 
ing her hand, and soothing her last moments by forgiveness. 

Somewhere between eight and nine o’clock a telegram came 
from Pole announcing that he had started by the train 'indi- 
cated in my message, and was bringing Dr. Mason with him. 

I communicated this to the doctors, and asked if there would 
be time, in their judgment, for him to reach us before the end 
came. They thought so, but had no certainty in their opinion. 
The elderly lawyer was either an early riser by habit, or was 
out at an unusual hour that morning. I told him the news, 
and he received it with a grave tranquillity. 

‘‘ It is better so,” he said. 

An hour or two later the housekeeper informed me that 
Goldsmith had shed tears on learning that the end was now 
regarded as inevitable. He did not appear at breakfsat, and I 
met him in the shrubbery, red-eyed and miserable. He came 
to me with no attempt to conceal his emotion, and without an 
atom of resentment, or even of memory, for our interview of 
last night. He was not sensitive to the opinion of others, and, 
except by actual violence, it did not seem easy to incense him. 

I was very fond of her,” he said, brokenly. “ She was 
hard to get along with, and she had her faults, like the rest of 
us. But she was kind to me, very kind oncQ, when I wanted 
it badly. ” 

And so even she had her mourner, and had enlisted the 
affection of one heart at least, and kept it, though she might 
have won and kept others better worth the having. 

I lingered as long as I dared before going down to meet Pole 
at the station, in order that I might be able to carry to him 
the latest intelligence. Outside the railway station I found 
quite a crowd of people. I suspect that the station-master had 
divulged the contents of Pole’s telegram, which was nofa very 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


279 


serious offense in the circumstances. The people were all 
quiet and expectant, and parted on either side to make a lane 
for the carriage. One or two of the villagers, whom I had 
known on earlier visits, came forward and made inquiries. By 
and by came the signal for the train, then the train itself. 
Then Pole, followed by Mason. 

“ What is the news?’’ he asked me. 

‘‘I thi^,” I answered, that you will be in time to see 
her.” 

“ Has she expressed a wish to see me?” he demanded. 

I had to answer in the negative, but I could tell him that 
she was strangely softened,, and that there was some hope of a 
reconciliation even at this late hour.* We entered the carriage 
and drove away amid the silent salutations on the village road, 
and I told the story of Lady Worborough’s outbreak. There 
was no need for silence in. Mason’s presence, for he knew the 
whole history already, and I had made Pole aware of his knowl- 
edge of it. The narrative shocked one of my listeners pain- 
fully, though I slid past the indignity of the search without a 
word, and did my best to emphasize the completeness of the 
retraction and apology. 

Ah, well!” said Mason, with an aspebt of relief, “ 1 am 
glad that the thing was not of my doing. I allowed Lady 
Worborough to come down here, and I was afraid that I might 
have acted like a fool. I understand it now, and it takes a 
great weight. from my mind.” 

I knew so well what happened afterward from Pole himself 
and from Mary’s account of it to Clara, that 1 can tell the 
story of the scene almost as if I had witnessed it. Mason told 
me something of it too, though he was very brusque and brief, 
not caring, I think, Ito trust himself to too prolonged a narra- 
tive. The dyiirg woman was told of her husband’s presence 
in the house, and was asked if she would see him. At first 
she made no sign at all, but by looking straight before her. 
Mary said that the hand she held trembled piteously at the 
question. It was repeated to her with much gentleness, and 
turning her eyes round upon the doctor, she signaled “ Yes.” 
The gesture of the head was faint, but its meaning was obvious. 
Pole was shown into the room, and his wife looked toward him 
with what was construed into a glance of 'appeal and supplica- 
tion. She was partly propped up with pillows, and her left 
hand lay upon the coverlet. Mary still held the other. 

Lady Worborough looked from Pole’s face to her own disen- 
gaged hand once or twice, and made a feeble motion of the 
hand itself. Pole read this sign, and took it in both his own. 


280 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


Mary rose and tried gently to disengage herself from the grasp 
which held her, but it tightened so decisively, and with a force 
which was so considerably greater than she could have ex- 
pected, that she resumed her place. 

The dying woman tried to speak, and did utter one or two 
words indistinctly, but they haif no meaning to her hearers. 
She lay with closed eyes for awhile after this failure, and both 
her husband and "Mary felt a change in her hands, a ipnseness 
which at first they thought indicated some spasm of great pain, 
though they knew only a second or two later that she was but 
making one final effort of that indomitable will. She quivered 
in her passionate desire to find the word. She found it and she 
spoke it, the worthiest she ever spoke, and the last: 

Forgive.^’ ' 

Pole told her that he forgave her everything, fully and free- 
ly, as he hoped that his own misdeeds might be forgiven. H!e 
begged her that if he had wronged her in any way she would 
pardon him as truly. The effort it had cost her to find the 
word had almost exhausted her, and they feared that every 
breath she drew would be her last. But she heard and under- 
stood, and for a moment a smile flickered faintly upon her 
face. Then a most strange and pathetic thing happened. The 
feeble hands drew the hands they held nearer to each other 
across the coverlet, and when they touched released them, and 
lay lax in death above them. 

So I may say of her truly that nothing in her life became 
her like the leaving of it. 


CHAPTEE XLI. 

A ROYAL master of fiction laid it down as an axiom that 
when everybody can tell how a story will end, the story is end- 
ed. Here, for the rounding of this history, there remain but 
two or three things to tell. Mary and I returned to town to- 
gether that same day, and Clara nursed her for a day or two 
with great assiduity, for now that the strain was over she 
proved quite overwrought. She was soon herself again, how- 
ever, and we fell into our own ways of life at home, with some 
few differences. Pole had never once crossed my threshold 
since my marriage, and his reason for absence had been under- 
stood ail along. He came for the first time about six weeks 
after Lady Worborough^s funeral. He was serious at first, 
but he had always been a man to whom affectation of any sort 
was intolerable and hateful, and when in the course of our talk 
we hapiDened to strike a comic fancy, he had one of his old 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


281 


bright and charming smiles in readiness for it. His troubles 
had aged him, and, young as he was, there was a touch of gray 
about his hair. The attitude of his mind had grown habitually 
serious, but he was not at all the man to cling to a departing 
shadow. 

“ I don't know,^'’ he said, whether I have acted properly 
in coming here so soon. 1 have been guided by you so often 
that if you will allow me I will take your advice once more. 
Mary is still staying with you?^"' 

Still, I answered, “ and will stay, until the only person 
who has a right to take her away shall come to do it. I have 
been looking for you for days past.'’^ 

“ That sounds, he said," “ like approval. ' 

It ought to sound,^^ I answered him, ‘‘ like complete ap- 
proval. The fact is that if you liked to think so, your position 
for a time might be embarrassing and delicate. If you do not 
choose to trouble yom’self at all about it, it may grow natural 
in a day. 

Clara, who was of course aware of his presence- in the house, 
came in at this juncture to welcome him. She stayed but for 
a moment or two, and on. retiring said: 

‘‘ Tea will be ready in five minutes. You will come up and 
join us, John, and bring Lord Worborough with you."’^ 

This indicated clearly enough another opinion on our side, 
and we followed Clara upstairs. Pole glanced about the 
room, but Mary was not there. He looked disappointed, and 
even a little nervous, but almost immediately she entered. 
They shook hands and we all sat down together, Clara talking 
at first'with a rather forced vivacity. She soon conquered this, 
however, and the ice once being broken, we got on without 
further trouble. When we had taken tea, Clara moved into 
the adjoining room and sat down to the piano. I also saun- 
tered through the folding-doors and stood to listen to her play- 
ing. It was by no means as' firm as usual, and I was not long 
in discovering that she was crying softly to herself. But I 
knew that her tears were very far from being unhappy, and 
feigned to take no notice. In about an hour PoJe said his 
good-byes and went away. He came again, and continued to 
come, not half as often as I should have been glad to see him, 
or I suppose a twentieth part as often as he would really have 
cared to call. 

I remember that while these visits were going on, and while 
indeed they were comparatively new, Clara and Mary and I 
dined together with that genial old Dr. Fish, of whom 1 have 
once or twice found it necessary to make mention in the course 


282 


THE WEAKEE VESSEL. 


of my story. I met at his table the lady of the poor, dear 
Hottentots. It appeared that they had changed their alle- 
giance, and the poor, dear Cypriotes were now in charge, after 
a fashion as mysterious as that of their predecessors. She 
hinted to me after dinner that Lord Worborough^s visits were 
just a little — nowdidnH I think so? Were they quite? Didn^t 
1 fancy, now, that they were rather premature? Did I think 
that they' were absolutely and entirely — well, she might say 
delicate? 

“ Dear madame,^^ I responded, “ Lord Worborough and 
Miss Delamere suffered horribly as the result of a wicked and 
shameful plot. They behaved throughout like persons of deli- 
cacy and honor, and they are acting now like people of com- 
mon sense. It was I who took upon myself to advise Lord 
Worborough, and his visits to my house are at my invitation. ** 

Whether the general Mrs. Grundy had more to say upon the 
question I never learned, and certainly never took the trouble 
to inquire. This particular lady was more abashed than 1 had 
meant her to be. She abdicated from her proprietorship of 
the poor, dear Cypriotes for the rest of that evening, and went 
away early, with effusive my dealings and' hand-shakings 
for Miss Delamere. 

When we had quite settled down to the new order of things, 
and when that sorrowful past had at last sunk from the sur- 
face of our lives, we made a very happy quartet. From my 
dignified height of married man I looked upon the two dearest 
friends 1 had in the world with a profound satisfaction and 
thanksgiving. Clara, from her extra elevation of dignity as 
married woman, surveyed them with a pleasure as genuine as 
my own. The ghastly dead past must have floated up some- 
times in their remembrance, as it did in ours, but the great 
equal stream of time went on and drowned it deeper hour by 
hour and day by day. 

The haunted man, in his bargain with the ghost, lost all his 
memories of sorrow with the natural result we know of. It 
would be as sad to lose our memories of trouble as to lose our 
memories of joy. But we may all thank God that joy grows 
brighter in the retrospection, and that sorrow fades. 

It was about this time that I received an unexpected visit in 
my official room. Mr. Delamere turned up there, as distin- 
guished, as well bred, as condescending, and urbane as ever. 

“ My dear Denham,'’" he said, ‘‘ I have called upon you with 
regard to an affair of the utmost delicacy. I have never been 
able to refrain from a certain leeling of contempt for those 
people who make a lavish display of the emotions. I have, in 


THE WEAKEE VESSEL. 


283 


fact, now in preparation for the press a lecture delivered some 
years ago on the Control of the Emotions as a’ Sign of the 
Perfected Man/’ 

I thought within myself that the control of the emotions 
was no doubt an admirable thing, but that the aspect of power 
in that direction might be less estimable where there were no 
emotions to control. But I held my tongue, and Mr. Delamere 
streamed on, calm, urbane, forgiving. 

“ I have never,” he pursued, closed my eyes to the fact 
that your charming wife and yourself have of late considerably 
influenced the career, the character, and the resolutions of my 
child. I do not inquire whether her resolutions to divide her 
life from mine were, or were not, arrived at as a result of that 
undoubted influence. I even applaud that fineness of senti- 
ment, that high sense of honor in my daughter, which led her 
to sacrifice the instincts and the cherished associations of a 
life-time. 1. presume that the instincts were inherited, and I 
can not, and I do not, blame Mary for acting upon a senti- 
ment which I have found only too considerably active in my 
own career. She has an erroneous conception of the circum- 
stances of the case. But I authorize you to inform her — I 
should rather say perhaps that 1 beg you to inform her— that I 
applaud her feeling, but that I consider that she has by this time 
more than sufliciently justified her own position. I come to 
you because I can not again endure to be encountered with 
coldness by my daughter. I appeal to you as a man of honor 
to present my case as I have stated it. It is possible,” he add- 
ed, with a touch of dignified pathos which would have imposed 
upon me completely in the early days of my acquaintance with 
him, ‘‘it is possible that my very whereabouts may be un- 
known to her. You will find it indicated here.” 

With this he produced a card and laid it delicately upon the 
table, like an artist and a gentleman. He took up his hat like 
an artist and a gentleman — he really had the most perfect and 
finished manner I have ever known — and rose to go. I 
promised that I would do my best, and told him I was certain 
that Mary would be the happier for the reconciliation. He 
thanked me and went away. 

I took the message home that evening, and to be brief, Mpy 
consented very willingly to call upon him, and next morning 
paid him a visit. As a result of this I wrote to him saying 
that she would continue her residence with Clara for some lit- 
tle time to come, and asking him to visit her and us as often 
as he pleased. I expressed my joy at the reconciliation, and 


S84 


THE WEAKEK VESSEL. 


made myself a great deal more agreeable on paper than I felt 
internally toward him. 

Sebastian had been upon our household list almost from the 
beginning, and it was like old times to hear him and Dela- 
mere, when they met together, orating one at another with all 
their original solemnity. Sebastian had turned to architect- 
ure, and had a theory that the reformation of the world fron; 
the great doctrine of ugliness was more easily to be effected in 
that direction than any other. 

“ The very streets of London strangle and suffocate the 
wayfarer,^’ he would say. “ The dull, eternal, unbroken, 
straight line wearies the soul with its infinite monotony of 
repetition. The poisonous fallacy of utility has • been the 
death of beauty. 

I suspect that he wrote these things down and committed 
them to memory, unless when they came freshly from the 
paternal pump-spout and he repoured them. 

“ I speak of the fallacy of utility, and I protest that I find 
no exaggeration in the phrase. The first essential in a thing 
is that it shall not be hideous. The second essential in given 
cases is that it shall be useful. Because we can pack more 
squares or oblongs than circles or ovals into a given space we 
sit in these soul-freezing rooms of ours, among flat walls and 
ceilings. 

Pole was there, and asked him if he wouldnT keep the floors 
level, if only as a concession. Not to speak it unkindly, Se- 
bastian had grown more tolerant of Pole's form of humor since 
the latter had come in for a great fortune and a peerage. I 
dare say that was true of many people, and I am not disposed 
to be severe on Jones. He smiled allowingly, and proceeded 
with the development of his theory. 

“It is very heart-breaking," he said at last, “ but nobody 
appears to care much. I dined last night with a contractor. 
One meets such people now and then. He jeered at my con- 
tention in a way which 1 felt to be quite tasteless and almost 
personally injurious. He positively told me that I need only 
exceed my average allowance of wine at dinner, and ‘ top up ' 
— that was the contractor's expression — with a dose of old Tom 
and hot water, in order to see the lines of any street arranged 
in as varied a pattern as I could desire. Of course that closed 
the conversation. One can't talk with such people. They 
veil themselves in their own coarse contempt against the light 
of thoughts beyond their understanding." 

But Sebastian was even more enjoyable on one occasion when 
only Pole and I were present. It appeared that Delamere and 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


385 


he had clubbed together, and had resolved, for the sak(? of 
society, to dine in common when not otherwise engaged. 

“ And do you know,'’^ said Jones, ‘‘ I begin to suspect 
Delamere of being a trifle selfish in an almost unbelievable 
direction. We have dined together, I should suppose, since 
this compact was entered upon, not fewer than a score of 
times. Now, it happens that the man who caters for us at 
the Albany, though otherwise excellent, is possessed of but 
little resource or variety with respect to dessert. He has al- 
ways served up a mere half dozen of a kind of macaroon of 
which I am — one confesses to this kind of trifle with no shame — 
particularly fond. 1 appropriated them, of course, with Dela- 
mere^s express consent, on the first evening. They became, 
so to speak, my property, and I looked forward to them 
naturally as the close of my repast. Now, last night, and 
positively also the night before, Delamere dehberately, and 
with obvious intention, appropriated them all.^’ 

Pole said that this was simply brutal, and Sebastian thought 
the term too strong. Really, he thought it unwarrantably 
strong. Pole was sorry, but regretted that he could not modify 
it, and Sebastian expressed his regret at having told the story. 
He valued Delamere, and had no wish to give his friends a 
poor opinion of him. For his own part, he was contented to 
describe -the act as an unexpected idiosyncrasy. 

I delighted in all this, not merely because it was so charm- 
ing in itself, but because it showed that Pole still had a laugh 
left in him, and because he had had a more relishing percep- 
tion bj’’ nature of the fun than I had. 

Nothing was said of the one event which we all regarded as 
inevitable. Clara was full of wonder as to when the news was 
coming. It came out at length that Pole and Mary had de- 
cided between themselves to wait a year, and that they had 
resolved upon a very quiet wedding. To me, the time seemed 
to pass swiftly, and 1 look back to it now, or at least to all but 
the earliest months of it, as the happiest of my life. There 
are few men who can boast of nine months so free from care, 
so tranquilly, uneventfully hopeful and content. To see the 
patient look of settled resignation fade from Mary^s face, and 
to see the dawn of positive happiness in it, was in itself a joy 
which any man might envy. To see the same change in Pole, 
to watch the quiet, hearty humor of the man growing more 
supple and more at home again within him day by day was 
another and an equal pleasure. 1 thought Pole the best fellow 
in the world. Almost everybody has that opinion about some- 
body, but I am prepared to this hour to back my man; and if 


286 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


anybody should prove so fortunate as to win against me, I 
shall never know it, and the winner will have a friend who is 
indeed worthy of his best affection. 

I am getting very near the end now, and have little more 
to tell. But when I sat, revolving this old history in my mind 
a year ago, and determining to write it, I fixed upon a title for 
the story, as if it had been a novel. I decided to call it “ The 
Weaker Vessel;’^ and that, if ever it should see the light of 
publicity, is the name it ought to bear. The episode the re- 
membrance of which decided me upon that title has still to be 
told. The title itself has passed into a sort of by-word between 
my wife and me, and we have grown familiar with the name. 

It was only a week before the wedding when Clara the 
younger had been conducted, on a chill but sunshiny day, 
upon a walk by her nurse. This same Clara the younger has 
filled but a little place in these pages, though she was known 
to all hands aboard the family craft as commanderess-in- 
chief. We were all standing at the drawing-room windows at 
home, chatting and looking out on the fine bright weather — 
Clara, Mary, Pole, nTyself, and Delamere. Clara, Delamere, 
and myself were at one window, Pole and Mary at the other. 
The little Clara was suddenly discerned in the street, toddling 
forward with outstretched hands and somewhat uncertain foot- 
steps, treating the ridges of frozen mud as if they were half 
her own height. !8he had evidently escaped for the moment 
from her nurse, who was scudding forward in a stooping 
posture, either to pick her up 5r to sustain her footsteps, when 
a wildly driven hansom came tearing round the corner, and 
dashed in between Them. The child was absolutely touched 
by the wheel, and thrown forward. The nurse-girl, recoiling 
with a shriek, tripped and sat down upon the road-way. By a 
happy wonder, neither child nor nurse received a hurt worth 
mentioning, but for the moment my heart was in my mouth, 
and by the time that Pole and I had torn down-stairs together, 
got the hall door open, and discovered the pair to be un- 
damaged, I was sick and faint. 

I carried the little creature, who was not at all alarmed by 
her tumble, into the drawing-room, and there was Mary in an 
arm-chair in a state of perfect collapse. She had fainted clean 
away. There was a mighty hubbub for a moment, but we all 
calmed down, and in half an hour^s time Mary herself, with a 
rather white face and tremulous manner, apologized for her 
weakness. She had imagined that both the girl and the child 
had been run over. 

Delamere was very gorgeous to behold and listen to as he 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


287 


expatiated upon this incident, and turning to Pole, with his 
courtly and condescending grace, he said: 

“ You must have pity on the weaker vessel. 

An hour later, when Mary had quite recovered and Pole and 
I were alone together, he delivered his mind of the thoughts 
which this utterance awoke in him. 

“Jack, you heard Delamere speak just now about the 
weaker vessel?^ ^ 

I remarked that I had noticed the phrase, and that I had 
had some fancies about it. 

“ It set me thinking,^’ said Pole. “ The weaker vessel! 
In all things worth while to be strong in, much the stronger 
vessel, to my mind. How dares that hollow sham to conde- 
scend to a creature so infinitely his superior? Hid she stoop 
to touch money dishonorably borrowed? And what did I do? 
Is it any vanity to say to you who know her as well almost as 
I do that she loves me? Is it vanity to suppose that she felt 
the separation as bitterly as I did? I know she did, Jack. I 
know the shame of being public talk in such a business made 
that sensitive heart bleed many and many a time. And while 
I was away in Paris, gambling and racketing and hating my 
kind and eating the husks the swine do eat, she was tending 
her sick and her poor^ and strengthening her soul with holy 
thought and pious living. Jack, my lad, they Ye better than 
we are. TheyYe purer and stronger, and more patient to 
endure.'’^ 

He was not talkative for a long time after this outburst, but 
several times in the course of the afternoon I heard him mut- 
tering to himself: “ The Weaker Vessel!^-’ in a tone of wrath- 
ful incredulity. 

In the old tales the hero and the heroine always married and 
lived happily ever afterward, and this strange episode in my 
own career shall end as so many other stories have ended — to 
the sound of wedding-bells. Their happy riot has long since 
sunk into silence; but I know that so far peace and honored 
usefulness and deep content follow their music. The wedding 
was a very quiet affair, indeed, as it was long since arranged it 
should be. There were not more than half a dozen people 
present at it as spectators. Helamere gave away the bride, 
and Sebastian was there in his character of friend of the 
family. Sebastian, by the way, brought the only strange lady 
present. He had so far relented from his theory of beauty 
and utility as to sacrifice himself at the shrine of a conspicu- 
ously plain and outrageously dollared young woman who came 
from Oleoville, Pa. She was related to the Hodges there, and. 


288 


THE WEAKER VESSEL. 


as everybody knows, the Dodges are financially big fish even 
among the biggest. 

I was particularly pleased to get a visit from Macllray on 
the very morning of the wedding, as I was in the act of dress- 
ing for the ceremony. I saw him in my dressing-room for an 
instant, and he was pleasantly excited by the news I had to 
give him. 

“ Ah'm glad,^^ said Mcllray, ‘‘ that the good lad is going to 
be happy. I’ll tell ye! Ef I may be permitted. I’ll just get 
away to the church, and have a look at the ceremony ^rom the 
gallery.” 

He made his way thither, and when the wedding was over, 
and the hand-shakings and congratulations were all over like- 
wise, and the wedded pair had been driven away, I found him 
waiting at the church door for me. There was no wedding- 
. breakfast, for Pole had too active a horror of the possibilities 
of Delamere’s eloquence on such aur-occasion to endure more 
than the bare, prospect of it. I know this to have been the 
working factor in his mind, and in all seriousness I am not 
disposed to be surprised at his decision. 

I should have been glad to meet Mcllrajr at any time, for I 
had learned to have a genuine regard for him. But with Pole 
and Mary gone I felt lonely and a little dispirited, and he 
came doubly welcome. We sat and talked about the chase in 
Paris, and 1 told him something of what had happened since. 

Then the conversation languished for a time, until his old 
unconscious watch-cry broke the silence. It sounded to me, 
in an odd way, as if there were a philosophy in it, as if it even 
reconciled discrepancies, and expressed a sort of wisdom of 
generality in little. 

“ Ay, ay, Denham,” said Mcllray. ‘‘ Ay, ay, lad! Ay, 
ay!” 


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78 Under Two Flags. By “ Ouida” ^ 

79 The Dark House. By George 

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80 The House on the Marsh. By 

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81 In a Grass Country. By Mrs. H, 

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82 Why Not? By Florence Marryat 25 

83 Weavers and Weft; or, “ Love 

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84 The Professor. By Charlotte 

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85 The Trumpet-Major. By Thomas 

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86 The Dead Secret. Wilkie Collins 25 

87 Deldee; or. The Iron Hand. By 

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88 Springhaveu. R. D. Blackmore. 

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88 Springhaven. R. D. Blackmore. 

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89 A Vagrant Wife. By Florence 

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90 Struck Down. By Hawley Smart ^ 

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92 Claribel’s Love Story; or,Love’s 

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94 Court Royal. By S. Baring- 

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95 Faith and Unfaith. By “The 

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96 Cherry Ripe? By Helen B. 

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143 A Maiden All Forlorn. By “ The 

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144 The Mystery of Colde Fell; or, 

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146 A Pilnce of Darkness. By 

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147 Roy and Viola. By Mrs. For- 

rester 25 

148 Doris. By “ The Duchess ” 26 

149 Mignon. By Mrs. Forrester. . . ^ 

150 The Crime of Christmas Day. . . ^ 

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152 Robur the Conqueror. By Jules 

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153 A Dark Marriage Morn. By 

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154 Within an Inch of His Life. By 

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156 Gold Elsie. By E. Marlitt ^ 

157 Her Second Love, By Charlotte 

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158 East Lynne. By Mrs. Heni'y 

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159 On Her Wedding Morn. By 

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160 Allan Quatermain. By H. Rider 

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164 A Modern Circe. By “ The Duch- 

6SS * ^ . . . . 25 

165 Handy Andy. A Tale of Irish 

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166 The Earl’s Error. By Charlotte 

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167 Scheherazade: A London 

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169 Marvel. By “ The Duchess ”.. . 25 

170 Driver Dallas, and Houp-Lal 

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171 Home Again. By George Mac- 

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The l3th Hussars. By Emile 

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263 From the Earth to the Moon. 

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264 Round the Moon. By Jules 

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265 A Witch of the Hills. By Flor- 

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ALPHABETICAL CATALOGUE. 

[When ordering by mail please order by numbers.^ 


202 Abbot, The. Sequel to “ The 
Monastery.” By Sir Walter 


Scott 20 

788 Absentee, The. An Irish Story. 

By Maria Edgeworth 20 

829 Actor’s Ward, The. By the au- 
thor of “A Fatal Dower”... 20 

36 Adam Bede. By George Eliot. 

First half 20 

36 Adam Bede. By George Eliot. • 

Second half 20 

388 Addie’s Husband ; or, Through 
Clouds to Sunshine. By the 
author of “Love or Lands?”. 10 
5 Admiral’s Ward, The. By Mrs. 
Alexander 20 

127 Adrian Bright. By Mrs. Caddy 20 

.500 Adrian Vidal. By W. E. Norris 20 

477 Affinities. By Mrs. Campbell- 

Praed 10 

413 Afloat and Ashore. By J. Fen- 
imore Cooper 20 

128 Afternoon, and Other Sketch- 

es. By“Ouida” 10 

603 Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant. First 

half 20 

603 Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant. Sec- 
ond half 20 

218 Agnes Sorel. By G. P. R. James 20 

14 Airy Fairy Lilian. By “ The 
Duchess” 10 


274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 
Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 

and Letters 10 

636 Alice Lorraine. By R. D. Black- 

more. 1st half 20 

636 Alice liOrraine. By R. D. Black- 
more. 2d half 20 


650 Alice; or, The Mysteries. (A Se- 
quel to “ Ernest Maltravers.”) 

By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 20 

462 Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 
land. By Lewis Carroll. With 
forty - two illustrations by 


John Tenniel 20 

989 Allan Quatermain. By H. 

Rider Haggard 20 

97 All in a Garden Fair. By Wal- 
ter Besant 20 

484 Although He Was a Lord, and 
Other Tales. Mrs. Forrester. 10 
47 Altiora Peto. By Laurence Oli- 
phant 20 

253 Amazon, The. CarlVosmaer 10 
447 American Notes. By Charles 

Dickens 20 

176 An April Day. By Philippa 

Prittie Jephson 10 

1101 An Egyptian Princess. By 

George Ebers. Vol. 1 20 

1101 An Egyptian Princess. By 

George Ebers. Vol. U 20 


2 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pockjet Edition, 


408 An English Squire. By C. R. 

Coleridge 20 

897 Ange. By Florence Marryat.. 20 
648 Angel of the Bells, The. By F. 

Du Boisgobey 20 

889 An Inland Voyage. By Robert 

Louis Stevenson 10 

263 An Ishmaelite. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

154 Annan Water. By Robert Bu- 
chanan 20 

200 An Old Man’s Love. By An- 
thony Trollope 10 

750 An Old Story of My Farming 
Days. Fritz Reuter. 1st half 20 
750 An Old Story of My Farming 
Days. Fritz Reuter. 2d half 20 
93 Anthony Trollope’s Autobiog- 
raphy 20 

995 An Unnatural Bondage, and 
That Beautiful Lady. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ”. 20 

843 Archie Lovell. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards 20 

895 Archipelago on Fire, The. By 

Jules Verne 10 

532 Arden Court. Barbara Graham 20 
1039 Armadale. By Wilkie Collins. 

1st half 20 

1029 Armadale. By Wilkie Collins. 

2d half 20 

247 Armourer’s Prentices, The. By 

Charlotte M. Yonge... 10 

813 Army Society. Life in a Garri- 
son Town. By J. S. Winter.. 10 
990 Arnold’s Promise. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 


324 Arundel Motto, The. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

347 As Avon Flows. By Henry Scott 

Vince 20 

541 “ As it Fell Upon a Day,” by 
“The Duchess;” and Uncle 
JAck, by Walter Besant 10 


560 Asphodel. Miss M. E. Braddon 20 
540 At a High Price. By E. Werner 20 
352 At Any Cost. By Edvr. Garrett 10 
564 At Bay. By Mrs. Alexander . . 10 
538 At His Gates. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 
192 At the World’s Mercy. By F. 


Warden. 10 

387 At War With Herself. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 10 


923 At War With Herself. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme. (Large type 

edition) 20 

1135 Aunt Diana. By Rosa Nou- 

chette Carey 20 

737 Aunt Rachel. By David Christie 

Murray 10 

760 Aurelian; or, Rome in the 
Third Century. By William 

Ware 20 

74 Aurora Floyd. By Miss M. E. 
Braddon 20 


997 Australian Aunt, The. By Mrs. 

Alexander 20 

730 Autobiography of Benjamin 
Franklin, The 10 


328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 
F. Du Boisgobey. 1st half... 20 
328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 
F. Du Boisgobey. 2d half. ... 20 
241 Baby’s Grandmother, The. By 
L. B. Walford 10 


342 Baby, The. By “ The Duchess ” 10 
611 Babylon. By Cecil Power — 20 
443 Bachelor of the Albany, The. . 10 
683 Bachelor Vicar of Newforth, 
The. By Mrs. J. Harcourt-Roe 20 
871 Bachelor’s Blunder, A. ByW. 


E. Norris 20 

65 Back to the Old Home. By 

Mary Cecil Hay 10 

847 Bad to Beat. By Hawley Smart 10 
1113 Bailiff’s Maid, The. By E. Mar- 

litt 20 

834 Ballroom Repentance, A. By 

Mrs. Annie Edwards 20 

494 Barbara. By “ The Duchess ” 10 
551 Barbara Heathcote's Trial. By 

Rosa N. Carey. 1st half 20 

551 Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. By 

Rosa N. Carey. 2d half 20 

99 Barbara’s History. By Amelia 

B. Edwards 20 

234 Barbara; or. Splendid Misery. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles 

Dickens. 1st half 20 

91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles 

Dickens. 2d half 20 

663 Barren Title, A. T. W. Speight 10 
731 Bayou Bride, The. By Mrs. 

Mary E. Bryan 20 

794 Beaton’s Bargain. By Mrs. Al- 
exander 20 

717 Beau Tancrede; or, the Mar- 
riage Verdict. By Alexander 
Dumas ... 20 

1079 Beautiful Jim: of the Blank- 

shire Regiment. By John 

Strange Winter 20 

29 Beauty’s Daughters. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

86 Belinda. By Rhoda Broughton 20 
929 Belle of Lynn, The; or, The 
Miller’s Daughter. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

593 Berna Boyle. By Mrs. J. H. 
Riddell 20 

1080 Bertha’s Secret. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

1080 Bertha’s Secret. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

581 Betrothed, The. (I Promessi 
Sposi.) Alessandro Manzoni. 20 
862 Betty’s Visions. By Rhoda 

Broughton 10 

620 Between the Heather and the 
Northern Sea. By M, Linskill 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY — Pocket Edition. 3 


466 Between Two Loves. By Char- 


lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

476 Between Two Sins; or, Married 
in Haste. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne ” 10 

483 Betwixt My Love and Me. By 
the author of “A Golden Bar ” 10 
308 Beyond Pardon. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme 20 

257 Beyond Recall. By Adeline Ser- 
geant 10 

55.3 Birds of Prey. By Miss M. E. 
Braddon 20 

320 Bit of Human Nature, A. By 

David Christie Murray 10 

411 Bitter Atonement, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

430 Bitter Reckoning, A. By the au- 
thor of “ By Crooked Paths ” 10 
353 Black Dwarf, The. By Sir 

Walter Scott 20 

302 Blatchford Bequest, The. By 
Hugh Conway , author of 

“Called Back” 10 

106 Bleak House. By Charles Dick- 
ens. 1st half 20 

106 Bleak House. By Charles Dick- 
ens. 2d half 20 

968 Blossom and Fruit; or, Ma- 
dame’s Ward. By the author 

of “ Wedded Hands” 20 

842 Blue-Stocking, A. By Mrs. An- 
nie Edwards 10 

492 Booties’ Baby ; or, Mignon. By 
J. S. Winter. Illustrated 10 

1121 Booties’ Children. By John 

Strange Winter 10 

935 Borderland. Jessie Fothergill. 20 
429 Boulderstone. By Wm. Sime. 10 
830 Bound by a Spell. Hugh Con- 
way, author of “ Called Back ” 20 


987 Brenda Yorke. By Mary Cecil 
Hay 20 

299 Bride from the Sea, A. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

362 Bride of Lammermoor, The. 

By Sir Walter Scott 20 

259 Bride of Monte-Cristo, The. A 
Sequel to “The Count of 
Monte-Cristo.” By Alexan- 
der Dumas 10 

1056 Bride of the Nile, The. By 

George Ebers. 1st half 20 

1056 Bride of the Nile, The. By 
George Ebers. 2d half 20 

300 Bridge of Love, A. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

907 Bright Star of Life, The. By 

B. L. Farjeon 20 

642 Britta. By George Tei^ple — 10 


76 Broken Heart, A; or. Wife in 
Name Only. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme', author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

54 Broken Wedding-Ring, A. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

898 Bulldog and Butterfly. By Da- 
vid Christie Murray 20 

1097 Burgomaster’s Wife, The. By 

George Ebers 20 

317 By Mead and Stream. By Chas. 

Gibbon 20 

68 By the Gate of the Sea. By D. 
Christie Murray 10 


739 Caged Lion, The. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

240 Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10 
602 Camiola: A Girl With a Fort- 
une. By Justin McCarthy 20 

186 Canon’s Ward, The. By James 
Payn 20 


149 Captain’s Daughter, The. 

From the Russian of Pushkin 10 
159 Captain Norton’s Diary, and 
A Moment of Madness. By 

Florence Marryat 10 

555 Cara Roma. By Miss Grant. . . 20 
711 Cardinal Sin, A. By Hugh 
Conway, author of “ Called 

Back ” 20 

502 Carriston’s Gif t. ByHugh Con- 
way, author of “Called Back ” 10 
917 Case of Reuben Malachi, The. 

By H. Sutherland Edwards.. 10 
937 Cashel Byron’s Profession. By 

George Bernard Shaw 20 

942 Cash on Delivery. By F. Du 

Boisgobey 20 

364 Castle Dangerous. By Sir Wal- 
ter Scott 10 

1001 Castle’s Heir, The; or. Lady 
Adelaide’s Oath. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood 20 

770 Castle of Otranto, The. By 

Horace Walpole 10 

746 Cavalry Life; or. Sketches and 
Stories in Barracks and Out. 

By J. S. Winter 20 

419 Chainbearer, The; or. The Lit- 
tlepage Manuscripts. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

1003 Chandos. By “Ouida.” 1st 

half 20 

1003 Chandos. By “Ouida.” 2d 

half 20 

783 Chantry House. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

790 Chaplet of Pearls, The ; or, The 
White and Black Ribaumont. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 1st half 20 
790 Chaplet of Pearls, The ; or. The 
White and Black Ribaumont. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 2d half 20 
212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish 
Dragoon. By Charles Lever. 

1st half 20 


1 


4 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish 


Dragoon, By Charles Lever. 

2d half 20 

554 Charlotte’s Inheritance. (A Se- 
quel to “ Birds of Prey.”) By 

Miss M, E. Braddon 20 

61 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. 


588 Cherry. By the author of “A 

Great Mistake” 10 

713 “ Cherry Ripe.” By Helen B. 

Mathers 20 

719 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. 

By Lord Byron 10 

966 Childhood’s Memories. By 

John Strange Winter 20 

882 Children of Gibeon. By Walter 

SO 

920 Child of the Revolution, A. By 
the author of “ Mile. Mori ”.. 20 
676 Child’s History of England, A. 

By Charles Dickens 20 

1084 Chris. By W. E. Norris 20 

657 Christmas Angel. By B. L. Far- 
jeon 10 

631 Christowell. R. D. Blackmore 20 
507 Chronicles of the Canongate, 

and Other Stories. By Sir 
Walter Scott 10 

632 Clara Vaughan. By R. D. 

Blackmore -. .. 20 

949 Claribel’s Love Story; or. 
Love’s Hidden Depths. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “Dora Thorne” 20 

1040 Clarissa’s Ordeal. By the au- 
thor of “A Great Mistake.” 

1st half 20 

1040 Clarissa’s Ordeal. By the au- 
thor of “ A Great Mistake.” 

2d half 20 

33 Clique of Gold, The. By Emile 

Gaboriau 20 

782 Closed Door, The. By P. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

782 Closed Door, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

499 Cloven Foot, The. By Miss M, 

E. Braddon 20 

493 Colonel Enderby’s Wife, By . 

Lucas Malet 20 

1140 Colonel Quaritch, V. C. By H. 

Rider Haggard 20 

769 Cometh Up as a Flower. By 

Rhoda Broughton 20 

221 Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye. By 

Helen B. Mathers 20 

1059 Confessions of an English Opi- 
um-Eater, By Thomas De 

Qiiincey 20 

1013 Confessions of Gerald Est- 
court, The. By Florence Mar- 

rvat 20 

523 Consequences of a Duel, The. 

By F. Du Boisgobey 20 

547 Coquette’s Conquest, A. By 

Basil 80 

104 Coral Pin, The. By F. Du Bois- 
gobey. 1st half 20 


Coral Pin, The. By F. Du Bois- 


gobey. 2d half 20 

Corinna. By “Rita” 10 

Cossacks, The. By Count Lyof 

Tolstoi i,,. 20 

Countess Eve, The. By J. H. 

Shorthouse 20 

Countess Gisela, The. By E. 

Marlitt 20 

Count of Monte-Cristo, The. 

By Alexander Dumas. Part I 30 
Count of Monte-Cristo, The. 

By Alexander Dumas. Part II 30 
Count’s Secret, The. By Emile 


Gaboriau. Part II 20 

Country Gentleman, A, By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

Courting of Mary Smith, The. 

By F. W. Robinson 20 

Court Royal. A Story of Cross 
Currents. By S. Baring-Gould 20 
Cousin Pons. By Hohor6 de 

Cousins! ‘ ‘By ‘l.’ 'b.' Walford ! ! ! 20 
Cradle and Spade. By William 

Sime 20 

Cradock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackmore. 1st half 20 

Cradock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackmore. 2d hair 20 

Cranford. By Mrs. Gaskell. .. 20 
Cricket on the Hearth, The. 

By Charles Dickens 10 

Crime of Christmas Day, The. 

By the author of “ My Ducats 

and My Daughter ” 10 

Crimson Stain, A. By Annie 

Bradshaw 10 

Oripps, the Carrier. By R. D. 

Blackmore 20 

Cry of Blood, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

Cry of Blood, The. By F. Du 
Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

r^ny*l’tT • An A ntrvn’o Gt“r»»*Tr Tirr 


‘John Coleman. Illustrated. 10 
Cut by the County ; or, Grace 
Darnel. Miss M. E. Braddon 10 
Cynic Fortune. By D. Christie 
Murray 20 

Daisy’s Dilemma. By Mrs. H. 

Lovett Cameron 20 

Dame Durden. By “Rita”.. ^ 
Daniel Deronda. By George 

Eliot, 1st half 20 

Daniel Deronda. By George 

Eliot, 2d half 20 

Dark Days. By Hugh Conway 10 
Dark House, The : A Knot Un- 
raveled, By G. Manville Fenn 10 
Dark Inheritance, A. By Mary 


Cecil Hay 20 

Dark Marriage Morn, A. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 20 

Daughter of Heth, A. By Will- 
iam ^lack 26 


104 

598 

1090 

1148 

1115 

262 

262 

979 

979 

687 

590 

787 

1128 

258 

649 

630 

630 

938 

108 

376 

706 

629 

851 

851 

504 

544 

826 

1025 

446 

34 

34 

301 

609 

1026 

975 

81 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


5 


251 Dauprhterof the Stars, The, and 
Other Tales. Hugh Conway, 
author of “ Called Back . 10 
22 David Copperfield. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. I 20 

22 David Copperfield. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. II 20 

959 Dawn. By H. Rider Haggard. 20 
527 Days of My Life, The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

305 Dead Heart, A. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme 10 

374 Dead Man’s Secret, The; or. 
The Adventures of a Medical 
Student. By Dr. Jupiter Paeon 20 

567 Dead Men’s Shoes. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

946 Dead Secret, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

1071 Death of Ivan Iliitch, The. By 

Count Lyof Tolstoi 10 

1062 Deerslayer, The; or. The First 
War - Path. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper. 1st half 20 

1062 Deerslayer, The; or. The First 
War - Path. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper. 2d half 20 

286 Deldee ; or. The Iron Hand. By 

F. Warden 20 

1028 Devout Lover, A ; or. A Wasted 

Love. By Mrs. H. Lovett Cam- 
eron 20 

115 Diamond Cut Diamond. By T. 

Adolphus Trollope 10 

1124 Diana Barrington. By B. M. 

Croker 20 

744 Diana Carew ; or. For a Wom- 
an’s Sake. B}' Mrs. Forrester 20 

350 Diana of the Crossways. By 

George Meredith 10 

250 Diana’s Discipline; or. Sun- 
shine and Roses. By Char- 
lotte M. Braernh 10 

478 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 

Part I 20 

478 Diavola: or, Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 

Partll 20 

87 Dick Sand ; or, A Captain at 
Fifteen. By Jules Verne — 20 
486 Dick’s Sweetheart. By ” The 

Duchess ” 20 

536 Dissolving Views. By Mrs. An- 
drew Lang 10 

185 Dita. By Lady Margaret Ma- 

jendie 10 

894 Doctor C XI pid. By Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

594 Doctor Jacob. By Miss Betham- 

Ed wards 20 

108 Doctor Marigold. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

529 Doctor’s Wife, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

721 Dolores. By Mrs. Forrester. . 20 
107 Dombey and Son. By Charles 
Dickens. 1st half 20 


Dombey and Son. By Charles 

Dickens. 2d half 20 

Donal Grant. By George Mac- 
Donald 20 

Don Gesualdo. By“Ouida.”. 10 
Donovan : A Modern English- 
man. By Edna Lyall. 1st half 20 
Donovan : A Modern English- 
man. By Edna Lyall. 2d half 20 
Doom ! An Atlantic Episode. 

By Justin H. McCarthy, M.P. 10 
Dora Thorne. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme 20 

Doris. By The Duchess ”... 10 
Doris’s Fortune. By Florence 

Warden 20 

Dorothy Forster. By Walter 

Besant 20 

Dorothy’s Venture. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

Dove in the Eagle’s Nest, The. 

By Charlotte M. Yonge 20 

Drawn Game, A. By Basil ... 20 
Driven to Ba}'. By Florence 

Marryat 20 

Driver Dallas. By John 

Strange Winter 10 

Duchess, The. By “The Duch- 
ess ” 20 

Ducie Diamonds, The. By C. 

Blatherwick 10 

Dudley Carleon ; or. The Broth- 
er’s Secret, and George Caul- 
field’s Journey. ByMissM. E. 

Braddon 10 

Duke’s Secret, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

Dynamiter, The. By Robert 
Louis Stevenson and Fanny 
Van de Grift Stevenson 20 


East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood. 1st half 20 

East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood. 2d half 20 

Earl’s Atonement, The. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 20 

Earl’s Error, The. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme 20 

Effie Ogilvie. B}’^ Mrs. Oliphant 20 
Egoist, The. By George Mere- 
dith. 1st half 20 

Egoist, The. By George Mere- 

<lith. 2d half 20 

Elect Lady, The. By George 

MacDonald m 20 

Elizabeth’s Fortune, By Ber- 
tha Thomas 20 

Emperor, The. By George 

Ebers 20 

England under Gladstone. 1880 
—1885. By Justin H. McCar- 
thy, M.P 20 

English Mail-Coach, The. By 

Thomas De Quincey 20 

Entangled. By E. Fairfax 
Byrrne 20 


107 

282 

671 

1149 

1149 

779 

51 

284 

820 

230 

678 

665 

585 

1022 

1039 

1035 

151 

549 

982 

855 

8 

8 

465 

990 

827 

1150 

1150 

1118 

960 

1106 

685 

1059 

521 


6 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


625 Erema; or, My Father’s Sin, 

By R. D. Blackmore 20 

118 Eric Dering, “ The Duchess ” 10 
96 Erling the Bold, By R, M, Bal- 

lantyne 10 

90 Ernest Maltravers. By Sir E, 

Bulwer Lytton 20 

1033 Esther : A Story for Girls, By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey 20 

786 Ethel Mildmay’s Follies, By 
author of “Petite’s Romance” 20 
162 Eugene Aram. By Sir E. Bul- 
wer Lytton 20 

1122 Eve. By S. Baring-Gould 20 

764 Evil Genius, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

470 Evelyn’s Folly. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

62 Executor, The. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander 20 

13 Eyre’s Acquittal. By Helen B. 
Mathers 10 

319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 
Fables. By R. E. Francillon. 10 
877 Facing the Footlights. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 20 

538 Fair Country Maid, A. By E. 

Fairfax Byrrne 20 

905 Fair-Haired Alda, The. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

261 Fair Maid, A. By F. W. Robin- 
son 20 

417 Fair Maid of Perth, The; or, 

St. Valentine’s Day. By Sir 
- Walter Scott 20 

626 Fair Mystery, A, By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

727 Pair Women. Mrs. Forrester 20 

30 Faith and Unfaith. By “ The 

Duchess” ,. 20 

819 Fallen Idol, A. By F, Anstey. . 20 
294 False Vow, The; or, Hilda. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “Dora Thorne ” 10 

928 False Vow, The; or, Hilda. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “Dora Thorne.” (Large 

type edition) 20 

543 Family Affair, A. By Hugh 
Conway, author of “ Called 
SSiClc 20 

338 Family Difflcuity, The. By Sa- 
rah Doudney 10 

690 Far From the Madding Crowd. 

By Thomas Hardy 20 

798 Fashioflof this World, The. By 

Helen B. Mathers 10 

680 Fast and Loose. By Arthur 

Griffiths 20 

246 Fatal Dower, A. By the Author 

of “His Wedded Wife” 20 

299 Fatal Lilies, The. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme f 10 

548 Fatal Marriage,' A, and The 
Shadow in the Corner. By 
Miss M. E. Braddou 10 


Fatal Three, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

Faust. By Goethe...^ 20 

Felix Holt, the Radical. By 

George Eliot 20 

Fenton’s Quest. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

Fighting the Air* By Florence 

Marryat 20 

File No. 113. Emile Gaboriau 20 

Finger of Fate, The. By Cap- 
tain Mayne Reid 20 

Fire Brigade, The. By R. M. 

Ballantyne 10 

First Person Singular. By Da- 
vid Christie Murray 20 

Fisher Village, The. By Anne 

Beale 10 

Flower of Doom, The, and 
Other Stories. By M. Betham- 


Flying Dutchman, The ; or. The 
Death Ship. By W. Clark Rus- 
sell 20 

“For a Dream’s Sake.” By 

Mrs. Herbert Martin. 20 

For Another’s Sin; or, A 
Struggle for Love. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme 20 

For Faith and Freedom. By 

Walter Besant. 1st half 20 

For Faith and Freedom. By 

Walter Besant. 2d half 20 

For Her Dear Sake. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

For Himself AJone. By T. W. 

Speight 10 

For Life and Love. By Alison 10 

For Lilias. By Rosa Nouchette 

Carey. 1st half 20 

For Lilias. By Rosa Nouchette 

Carey. 2d half 20 

For Maimie’s Sake. By Grant 

Allen 20 

“ For Percival.” By Margaret 

Veley. .. 20 

Foreigners, The. By Eleanor C. 

Price 20 

Forging the Fetters, and The 
Australian Aunt. By Mrs. 

Alexander 20 

Fortune’s Wheel. By “The 
Duchess” 10 


Fortunes, Good and Bad, of a 
Sewing-Girl, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Stanley 10 

Foul Play. By Charles Reade 20 
Found Out. By Helen B. 

Mathers 10 

Frank Fairlegh; or. Scenes 
From the Life of a Private 
Pupil. By Frank E. Smedley 20 

Freres, The. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. 1st half 20 

Freres, The. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. 2d half 20 

Friendship. By “Ouida”.... SO 


1098 

1043 

693 

542 

993 

7 

575 

95 

674 

199 

579 

1129 

156 

745 

1151 

1151 

197 

150 

278 

608 

608 

712 

586 

173 

997 

171 

468 

216 

438 

333 

805 

805 

826 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


7 


288 From Gloom to Sunlight; or 


From Out the Gloom. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 10 

955 From Gloom to Sunlight; or, 
From Out the Gloom. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme. (Large 

type edition) 20 

732 From Olympus to Hades. By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

*88 From Out the Gloom ; or, From 
Gloom to Sunlight. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

955 From Out the Gloom ; or. From 
Gloom to Sunlight. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme. (Large type 

edition) , 20 

348 From Post to Finish, A Racing 
Romance. By Hawley Smart 20 
1152 From the Earth to the Moon. 

By Jules Verne, Illustrated.. 20 
1044 Frozen Pirate, The, By W. 
Clark Russell 20 

285 Gambler’s Wife, The 20 

971 Garrison Gossip: Gathered in 

Blankhampton. John Strange 

Winter 20 

772 Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood 
Trader. By R, M. Ballantyne 20 
1126 Gentleman and Courtier. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

549 George Caulfield’s Journey. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 10 

365 George Christy ; or, The Fort- 
unes of a Minstrel. By Tony 

^^8/StOI* 20 

331 Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price. 20 
208 Ghost of Charlotte Cray, The, 
and Other Stories. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

613 Ghost’s Touch, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

225 Giant’s Robe, The. F. Anstey 20 
3(X) Gilded Sin, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Doi’a 

Thorne ” 10 

508 Girl at the Gate, The. By 

Wilkie Collins 10 

954 Girl’s Heart, A. By the author 

of “ Nobody’s Darling ” 20 

867 Girls of Feversham, The. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

644 Girton Girl, A. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards 20 

140 Glorious Fortune, A. By Wal- 
ter Besant 10 

1092 Glorious Gallop, A, By Mrs. 

Edward Kennard 20 

647 Goblin Gold, By May Crom- 

melin 10 

450 Godfrey Helstone. By Georgi- 
ana M. Craik 20 

972 Gold Elsie. * By E. Marlitt 20 

911 Golden Bells: A Peal in Seven 

Changes. By R. E, Fraucillon 20 
153 Golden Calf, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 


306 Golden Dawn, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 


Thorne” 10 

656 Golden Flood, The. By R. E. 

FranciUon and Wm. Senior. . 10 
LOlO Golden Gates. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of ” Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

172 ” Golden Girls.” By Alan Muir 20 
292 Golden Heart, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of ” Dora 

Thorne” 10 

916 Golden Hope, The. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

667 Golden Lion of Granpere, The. 

By Anthony Trollope 20 

758 “ Good-bye, Sweetheart!” By 

Rhoda Broughton 20 

356 Good Hater, A. By Frederick 

Boyle 20 

801 Good-Natured Man, The. By 


981 Granville de Vigne. ” Ouida.” 

1st half 20- 

981 Granville de Vigne. “Ouida,” 

2d half 20 

710 Greatest Heiress in England, 

The, By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

439 Great Expectations. By Chas. 

Dickens 20 

135 Great Heiress, A : A Fortune in 
Seven Checks, By R. E. Fran- 

cillon 10 

986 Great Hesper, The. By Frank 

Barrett 20 

244 Great Blistake, -A. By the au- 
thor of “ Cherry ” , -. . 20 

170 Great Treason, A. By Mary 

Hoppus.'' 1st half 20 

170 Great Treason, A. By Mary 

Hoppus, 2d half 20 

751 Great Voj^ages and Great Navi- 
gators. Jules Verne. 1st half 20 
751 Great Voyages and Great Navi- 
gators. Jules Verne. 2d half 20 
138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 

By Wm. Black 20 

231 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 

By Charles Reade 20 

677 Griselda. By the author of “ A 

Woman’s Love-Story” 20 

469 Guiding Star, A; or. Lady Da- 
rner’s Secret. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

896 Guilty River, The. By Wilkie 
Collins 20 

597 Haco the Dreamer. By William 

Sime 10 

668 Half-Way. An Anglo-French 

Romance 20 

663 Handy Andy. By Samuel Lover 20 
84 Hard Times. Charles Dickens 10 
622 Harry Heathcote of GangoU. 

By Anthony Trollope 10 

191 Harry.Lorrequer. By Charles 
Lever 20 


8 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


569 Harry Muir. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 
873 Harvest of Wild Oats, A. By 

Florence Marry at 20 

785 Haunted Chamber, The. By 

“ The Duchess ” 10 

977 Haunted Hotel, The. By Wil- 
kie Collins 20 

968 Hauuted Life, A; or. Her Terri- 
ble Sin. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

169 Haunted Man, The. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

533 Hazel Kirke. By Marie Walsh. 20 
966 He, by the author of “ King 
Solomon’s Wives” 20 

385 Headsman, The ; or, The Ab- 
baye des Vignerons. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

811 Head Station, The. By Mrs. 

Campbell-Praed 20 

572 Healey. By Jessie Fothergill 20 
, 167 Heart and Science. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

444 Heart of Jane Warner, The. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

391 Heart of Mid-Lothian, The. By 

Sir Walter Scott 20 

695 Hearts: Queen, Knave, and 
Deuce. By David Christie 

Murray 20 

1155 Heiress of Arne, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

741 Heiress of Hilldrop, The; or, 
The Romance of a Young 
Girl. By Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 

1104 Heir of Linne, The. By Rob- 
ert Buchanan 20 

823 Heir of the Ages, The. By 

James Payn 20 

689 Heir Presumptive, The. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

1021 Heir to Ashley, The. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood 20 

513 Helen Whitney’s Wedding, and 
Other Tales. By Mrs. Henry 
Wood 10 

535 Henrietta’s Wish; or. Domi- 
neering. By Charlotte M. 

Yonge 10 

806 Her Dearest Foe. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. 1st half 20 

806 Her Dearest Foe. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. 2d half 20 

160 . Her Gentle Deeds. By Sarah 
Tytler 10 

814 Heritageof Langdale, The. By 

Mrs. Alexander 20 

956 Her Johnnie. By Violet Whyte 20 
860 Her Lord and Master. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 20 

.297 Her Marriage A^ow; or, Hil- 
ary’s Folly. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Doi*a 
Thorne” 10 


953 Her Marriage Vow; or, Hil- 
ary’s Folly. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne.” (Large type edition) 20 
576 Her Martyrdom. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

19 Her Mother’s Sin. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne”; 10 

824 Her Own Doing. W. E, Norris 10 
9^ Her Own Sister. By E. S. Will- 
iamson 20 

1065 Herr Paulus: His Rise, His 
Greatness, and His Fall. By 

Walter Besant 20 

978 Her Second Love. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

958 Her Terrible Sin ; or, A Haunt- 
ed Life. Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 
196 Hidden Perils. Mary Cecil Hay 20 

518 Hidden Sin, The. A Novel 20 

933 Hidden Terror, A. By Mary 

Albert 20 

297 Hilary’s Folly; or. Her Mar- 
riage Vow. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne” 10 

953 Hilary’s Folly; or, Her Mar- • 
riage Vow. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme. (Large type edition) 20 
294 Hilda; or. The False Vow. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

928 Hilda; or. The False Vow. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme. (Large 

type edition) 20 

668 History of a Week, The. By 

Mrs. L. B. Walford 10 

165 History of Henry Esmond, The. 

By William M. Thackeray .. . 20 
461 His Wedded AVife. By author 

of “ A Fatal Dower ” 20 

1006 His Wife’s Judgment. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

904 Holy Rose, The. By Walter Be- 
sant 10 

378 Homeward Bound; or. The 

Chase. By J. F. Cooper 20 

1041 Home Again. B 3 '^ George Mac- 
donald 20 

379 Home as Found. (Sequel to 

“ Homeward Bound.”) By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

1089 Home Sounds. By E. Werner 20 
1094 Homo Sum. By George Ebers 20 
1103 Honorable Mrs. A^ereker, The. 

By “The Duchess ” 20 

800 Hopes and Fears ; or. Scenes 
from the Life of a Spinster. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 1st half 20 
800 Hopes and Fears: or. Scenes 
from the Life of a Spinster! 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 2d half 20 
552 Hostages to Fortune. By Miss 
M. E. Braddon 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


9 


600 Houp-Lal By John Strange 

Winter, (Illustrated) 10 

703 House Divided Against Itself, 

A. -By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

848 House on the Marsh, The. By 

F. Warden 10 

351 House on the Moor, The. By 


874 House Party, A. By “ Ouida ” 10 
481 House that Jack Built, The. 

By Alison 10 

754 How to be Happy Though Mar- 
ried, By a Graduate in the 

University of Matrimony 20 

748 Hurrish: A Study. By the 

Hon. Emily Lawless 20 

198 Husband’s Story, A lO 

389 Ichabod. A Portrait. By Bertha 

Thomas 10 

996 Idalia. By “ Ouida.” 1st half 20 
996 Idalia. By “ Ouida.” 2d half 20 

188 Idonea. By Anne Beale 20 

807 If Love Be Love. By D, Cecil 

Gibbs 20 

715 I Have Lived and Loved. By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

762 Impressions of Theophrastus 

Such. By George Eliot 10 

308 Ingledew House. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of ” Dora 

Thorne” 10 

796 In a Grass Country. By Mrs. 

H. Lovett Camex*on . . . ' 20 


1009 In an Evil Hour, and Other 
Stories. By “The Duchess” 20 
304 In Cupid’s Net. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 


Thorne ” 10 

404 In Durance Vile, and Other 
Stories. By “The Duchess” 10 
1132 In Far Lochaber. By William 

Black 20 

324 In Luck at Last. By Walter 

Besant 10 

672 In Maremma. By “ Ouida.” 1st 


672 In Maremma. By “Ouida.” 2d 

half 20 

1143 Inner House, The. By Walter 

Besant 20 

604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern 
Life. By Mrs. Oliphant. 1st 

half 20 

•04 Innocent: A Tale of Modern 
Life. By Mrs. Oliphant. 2d 

half 20 

677 In Peril and Privation, By 

James Payn 10 

638 In Quarters with the 25th (The 
Black Horse) Dragoons. By 

J. S. Winter 10 

759 In Shallow Waters. By Annie 

Armitt 20 

39 In Silk Attire. By Wm, Black 20 
1111 In the Counselor’s House. By 

E. Marlitt 20 

T38 In the Golden Days. By Edna 
LyaU 20 


In the Middle Watch. By W, 

Clark Russell 20 

In the Schillingscourt. By E. 

Marlitt 20 

In the West Countrie. By May 

Crommelin 20 

Introduced to Society. By 

Hamilton Aid6 10 

lone Stewart. By Mrs, E. Lynn 

Linton 20 

Irene’s Vow, By Charlotte M. 

Braeme 20 

“ I Say No or. The Love-Let- 
ter Answered. By Wilkie Col- 
lins .' 80 

“It is Never Too Late to 
Mend.” By Charles Reade. .. 20 
Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

Jack, By Alphonse Daudet. . . 20 
Jackanapes, and Other Stories. 

By Juliana Horatia Ewing. . . 10 
Jack of All Trades. By Charles 

Reade 10 

Jack Tier; or. The Florida 
Reef. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 
Jack’s Courtship. By W. Clark 

Russell. 1st half 20 

Jack’s Courtship. By W. Clark 

Russell, 2d half 20 

James Gordon’s Wife, A Novel 20 
Jane Eyre. Charlotte Brontd 20 
Janet’s Repentance. By 

George Eliot 10 

Jenifer. By Annie Thomas ... 20 
Jess. By H, Rider Haggard .. 20 
Jessie. By the author of “ Ad- 

die’s Husband” 20 

J et : Her Face or Her Fortune ? 

By Mrs. Annie Edwards 10 

Joan. By Rhoda Broughton. 20 
Joan Wentworth. By Katha- 
rine S. Macquoid-. 20 

John. By Mrs. Oliphant ^ 

John Bull and His Island. By 

Max O’Rell 10 

John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 
True Light. By a “Brutal 

Saxon” 10 

John Halifax, Gentleman. By 

Miss Mulock, 1st half 20 

John Halifax, Gentleman. By 

Miss Mulock. 2d half 20 

John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. 

By W. Clark Russell 10 

John Maidment. By Julian 

Sturgis 20 

John Marchmont’s Legacy. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

Joshua Haggard’s Daughter. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

Joy; or. The Light of Cold- 
Home Ford. By May Crom- 
melin 20 

Judgment of God, A. By E. 

Werner 20 

Judith Shakespeare : Her Love 
Affairs and Other Advent- 
ures. By William Black.... SO 


682 

1093 

452 

383 

122 

1031 

233 

235 

28 

534 

752 

206 

416 

743 

743 

519 

15 

728 

142 

941 

1046 

841 

767 

914 

357 

203 

289 

11 

11 

209 

694 

570 

488 

619 

1154 

265 . 


iO 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY — Pocket Edition. 


832 Judith Wynne. By author of 

“ Lady Lovelace ” 20 

898 Julia and Her Romeo. By Da- 
vid Christie Murray 20 

80 June. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

561 Just As I Am ; or, A Living Lie. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

1055 Katharine Regina. By Walter 

Besant 20 

1063 Kenilworth. By Sir Walter 

Scott. 1st half 20 

1063 Kenilworth. By Sir Walter 

Scott. 2d half 20 

832 Kidnapped. By Robert Louis 

Stevenson 20 

857 Kildee ; or, The Sphinx of the 
Red House. By Mary E. 

Bryan. 1st half. 20 

857 -Kildee; or. The Sphinx of the 
Red House. By Mary E. 

Bryan. 2d half 20 

126 Kilmeny. By William Black. 20 
808 King Arthur. Not a Love 

Story. By Miss Mulock 20 

753 King Solomon’s Mines. By H. 

Rider Haggard 20 

970 King Solomon’s Wives; or, The 
Phantom Mines. By Hyder 

Ragged. (Illustrated) 20 

435 Klytia : A Story of Heidelberg 
Castle. By George' Taylor. . . 20 
1147 Knight-Errant. ByEdnaLyall. 

1st half 20 

1147 Knight-Errant. ByEdnaLyall. 

2d half 20 

1001 Lady Adelaide’s Oath; or, The 
Castle’s Heir. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 20 

35 Lady Audley’s Secret. By Miss 

M. E'. Braddon 20 

733 Lady Branksmere. By “ The 

Duchess” 20 

516 Lady Castlemaine’s Divorce; 
or, Put Asunder. ByChailotte 

M. Braeme 20 

219 Lady Clare ; or. The Master of 
the Forges, From the French 

of Georges Ohnet 10 

469 Lady Darner’s Secret; or, A 
Guiding Star. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne” 20 

981 Lady Diana’s Pride. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride ; or, The Mi- 
ser’s Treasure. By Mrs. Alex. 

McVeigh Miller 20 

1042 Lady (jrace. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 20 

305 Lady Gwendoline’s Djeam. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

294 Lady Hutton’s Ward. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme 10 


Lady Hutton’s Ward. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme. (Large type 


edition) 20 

Lady Lovelace. By the author 

of “Judith Wynne” 20 

Lady Muriel’s Secret. By Jean 

Middlenias 20 

Lady of Lj’ons, The. Founded 
on the Piay of that title by 

Lord Ly tton — 10 

Lady of the Lake, The. By Sir 

Walter Scott, Bart 20 

Lady’s Mile, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

Lady Valworth’s Diamonds. 

By *“ The Duchess ” 20 

Lady with the Rubies, The. By 

E. Marlitt 2C 

Lancaster's Choice. By Mrs. 

Alex. McVeigh Miller 2C 

Lancelot Ward, M.P. George 

Temple K 

Land Leaguers, The. By An- 
thony Trollope 20 

Lasses of Leverhouse, The. 

By Jessie Fothergill 20 

Last Days at Apswich .10 

Last Days of Pompeii, The. By 
Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 20 


Last of the Barons, The, By Sir 
E. Bulwer Lytton. 1st half. . 20 
Last of the Barons, The. By Sir 
E. Bulwer Lytton. 2d half.. 20 
Last of the Mohicans, The. By 


J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

Late Miss Hollingford, The. 

By Rosa Mulholland 10 

Laurel Vane; or. The Girls’ 
Conspiracy. By Mrs. Alex. 

McVeigh Miller .-i-. . . 20 

Lazarus in London. By F. W. 

Robinson 20 

Leah : A Woman of Fashion. 

By Mrs. Annie Edwards. 20 

Led Astra j’-; or, “ La Petite 
Comtesse.” Octave Feuillet. 10 
Legacy of Cain, The. By Wil- 
kie Collins 20 

Legend of Montrose, A. By Sir 

Walter Scott 20 

Leila; or, The Siege of Gren- 
ada, By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 10 
Les Mis6rables. Victor Hugo. 

Part 1 20 

Les Mis6rables. Victor Hugo. 

Part II 20 

Les Misfirables. Victor Hugo. 

Part HI 20 

Lester’s Secret, By Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

Letty Leigh. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

Lewis Arundel ; or, The Rail- 
road of Life. By Frank E, 

Smedley 20 

Life and Adventures of Martin 
Chuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. 1st half 20 


928 

506 

155 

161 

1060 

497 

875 

652 

269 

599 

32 

1099 

684 

40 

130 

130 

60 

921 

267 

455 

839 

386 

1095 

853 

164 

885 

885 

885 

408 

988 

562 

437 


THE SEASEDE LIBRARY — Pocket Edition. 


11 


437 Life and Adventures of Martin 
ChuzzJewit. By Charles Dick- 


ens. 2d half 20 

774 Life and Travels of Mungo 

Park, The 10 

1057 Life Interest, A. By Mrs. 

Alexander 20 

698 Life’s Atonement, A. By David 

Christie Murray 20 

1070 Life’s Mistake, A. By Mrs. H. 

Lovett Cameron 20 

1027 Life’s Secret, A. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 20 

1036 Like and Unlike. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

617 Like Dian’s Kiss. By “ Rita ” 20 
807 Like no Other Love. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

402 Lilliesleaf ; or, Passages in the 
Life of Mrs. Margaret Mait- 
land of Sunnyside. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln; or. The 
Leaguer of Boston. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. 1st half 20 

94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. 2d half 20 

109 Little Loo. W. Clark Russell 20 
179 Little Make-Believe. By B. L. 

Farjeon 10 

1083 Little Old Man of the Batig- 
nolles, The. By Emile Ga- 

boriau 10 

45 Little Pilgrim, A. By Mrs. Oli- 
phant 10 

272 Little Savage, The. By Captain 

Marryat 10 

111 Little School-master Mark, 
The. By J. H. Shorthouse . . 10 
899 Little Stepson, A. By Florence 

Marryat 10 

878 Little Tu’penny. By S. Baring- 

Gould 10 

804 Living or Dead. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of “Called Back ” 20 
919 Locksley Hall Sixty Years Af- 
ter, etc. By Alfred, Lord 

Tennyson, P.L., D.C.L 10 

* 797 Look Before You Leap. By 

Mrs. Alexander 20 

1134 Lord Elesmere’s Wife. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme. 1st half. . 20 
1134 Lord Elesmere’s Wife. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme. 2d half — 20 
92 Lord Lynne’s Choice. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 10 

749 Lord Yanecourt’s Daughter. 

By Mabel Collins 20- 

67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Black- 

more. Isthalf 20 

67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Black- 

more. 2d half 20 

473 Lost Son, A. By Mary Linskill 10 
354 Lottery of Life, The. By John 
Brougham 20 i 


458 Lottery Ticket, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey 20 

479 Louisa. By Katharine S. Mac- 

quoid 20 

742 Love and Life. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

273 Love and Mirage; or. The 
Waiting on an Island. By M. 

Be tham-Ed wards 10 

232 Love and Money ; or, A Peril- 
ous Secret. By Chas. Reade. 10 
146 Love Finds the Way, and Oth- 
er Stories. By Walter Besant 

and James Rice 10 

306 Love for a Day. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne”.. 10 

313 Lover’s Creed, The. By Mrs. 

Cashel-Hoey 20 

893 Love’s Conflict. By Florence 

Marryat. 1st half 20 

893 Love’s Conflict. By Florence 

Marryat. 2d half 20 

573 Love’s Harvest. B. L. Farjeon 20 
949 Love’s Hidden Depths; or, 
Claribel’s Love Story. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

175 Love’s Random Shot. By Wil- 
kie Collins 10 

757 Love’s Marti'^r. By Laurence 

Alma Tadema 10 

291 Love’s Warfare. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 10 

73 Love’s Victory ; or. Redeemed 
by Love. By Chai-lotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 20 


118 Loys, Lord Berresford. By 

“ The Duchess ” 10 

582 Lucia, Hugh and Another. By 

Mrs. J. H. Needell 20 

589 Luck of the Darrells, The. By 

James Pay n 20 

901 Lucky Disappointment, A. By 

Florence Marryat 10 

370 Lucy Crofton. Mrs. Oliphant 10 
.155 Lured Away; or. The Story of 
a Wedding-Ring. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme 20 


44 Macleod of Dare. By William 
SldiClc 20 

526 Madame De Presnel. By E. 

Frances Poynter 20 

345 Madam. By Mrs. Oliphant... 20 
1127 Madam Midas. By Fergus W. 

Hume 20 

78 Madcap Violet. By Wm. Black 20 
1004 Mad Dumaresq. . By Florence 

Marryat 20 

510 Mad Love, A. By the author of 

“Lover and Lord” 10 

1014 Mad Love, A. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thoi^ne” 20 

69 Madolin’s Lover. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme 20 


12 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


341 Madolin Rivers; or, The Little 
Beauty of Red Oak Seminary. 

By Laura Jean Libbey 20 

377 Magdalen Hepburn : A Story of 
the Scottish Reformation. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

494 Maiden All Forlorn, A. By 

“ The Duchess ” 10 

64 Maiden Fair, A. By Charles 

Gibbon 10 

121 Maid of Athens. By Justin 

McCarthy 20 

633 Maid of Sker, The. By R. D. 

Blackmore. 1st half 20 

633 Maid of Sker, The. By R. D. 

Blackmore. 2d half 20 

229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? By 

Mrs. Alexander 10 

1105 Maiwa’s Revenge. By H. Ri- 
der Haggard 20 

1019 Major and Minor. By W. E. 

Norris. 1st half 20 

1019 Major and Minor. By W. E. 

Norris. 2d half 20 

803 Major Frank. By A. L. G. Bos- 

boom-Toussaint 20 

702 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 
lins. 1st half 20 

702 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 
lins. 2d half 20 

277 Man of His Word, A. By W. 

E. Norris 10 

688 Man of Honor, A. By John 

Strange Winter. Illustrated. 10 
217 Man She Cared For, The. By 

F. W. Robinson 20 

371 Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

755 Margery Daw. A Novel 20 

922 Marjorie. By Charlott'e M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

451 Market Harborough, and In- 
side the Bar. By G. J. Whyte- 

Melville 20 

773 Mark of Cain, The. By Andrew 

Lang 10 

1002 Marriage at a Venture. By 

Emile Gaboriau 20 

334 Marriage of Convenience, A. 

By Harriett Jay 10 

480 Married in Haste. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

476 Mai’ried in Haste; or, Between 
Two Sins. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme 20 

992 Marrying and Giving in Mar- 
riage. By Blrs. Molesworth.. 20 
1047 Marvel. By “The Duchess”.. 20 
615 Mary Anerley. By R. D. Black- 

more 20 

1058 Mas.'iniello; or. The Fi.shermau 
of Naples. By Alexander Du- 
mas 20 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

646 Master of the Mine, The. By 
Robert Buchanan.. 20 


Master Passion, The. By Flor- 


ence Marryat 20 

Matapan Affair, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half. 20 

Matapan Affair, The. By F. 

Du Boisgobey. 2d half 20 


Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 
Verne. (Illustrated.) Parti. 10 
Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 
Verne. (Illustrated.) Part II 10 
Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 


Verne. (Illustrated.) Part III 10 
Matt: A Tale of a Caravan. 

By Robert Buchanan 10 

Mauleverer’s Millions. By T. 

Wemyss Reid 20 

May Blossom; or. Between 
Two Loves. By Margaret Lee 20 
Mayor of Casterbridge, The. 

By Thonias Hardy 20 

Memoirs ' and Resolutions of 
Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 
including some Chronicles of 
the Borough of Fendie. By 

Ml'S. Oliphant 20 

Mental Struggle, A. By “ The 

Duchess” 20 

Jlercedes of Castile; or, Tne 
Voyage to Cathay. By J. Fen- 

imore Cooper 20 

Merchant’s Clerk, The. By 

Samuel Warren 10 

Merry Men, The, and Other 
Tales and Fables. By Robert 

Louis Stevenson 20 

Michael Strogoff; or, The (Cou- 
rier of the Czar. Jules Verne 20 
Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 

1st half - 20 

Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 

2d half 20 

Midnight Sun, The. By Fred- 

rika Bremer lO 

Midshipman, The, Marmaduke 
Merry. Wm. H. G. Kingston. 20 
Mignon. By Mrs. Forrester.. 20 
Mignon ; or. Booties’ Baby. By 

J. S. Winter. Illustrated 10 

Mignon’s Husband. By John 

Strange Winter 20 

Mignon’s Secret. By John 

Strange Winter lo * 

Mikado, The. and Other Comic 
Operas. Written by W. S. 
Gilbert. Composed by Arthur 

Sullivan 20 

Mildred Trevanion. By “ The 

Duchess ” 10 

Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 
“ Afloat and Ashore.”) By J. 

Fenimore Cooper...* 20 

Mill on the Floss, The. By 

George Eliot 20 

Miller’s Daughter, The; or. The 
Belle of Lynn. By Charlotte 
M. Braenje, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

Milly’s Hero. F. W. Robinson 20 
Millionaire, The ^ 


825 

1085 

1085 

578 

578 

578 

398 

723 

330 

791 

837 

771 

424 

406 

940 

1020 

31 

31 

187 

763 

729 

492 

1032 

876 

692 

390 

414 

3 

929 

157 

182 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition-. 


13 


205 Minister’s Wife, The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 30 

1051 Misadventures of John Nichol- 
son, The. Robert Louis 

Stevenson '. 10 

399 Miss Brown. By Vernon Lee. 20 
369 MissBretherton. By Mrs. Hum- 
phry Ward 10 

1007 Miss Gascoigne. By Mrs. J. 

H. Riddell 20 

866 Miss Harrington’s Husband; 
or, Spiders of Society. By 
Florence Marryat 20 

245 Miss Tommy. By Miss Mulock 10 
315 Mistletoe Bough, The. Edited 

by Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

618 Mistletoe Bough, The. Christ- 
mas, 1885. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

890 Mistletoe Bough, The. Christ- 
mas, 1886. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

1038 Mistress and Maid. By Miss 

Mulock 20 

ip30 Mistress of Ibichstein. By Fr. 

Henkel 20 

298 Mitchelhurst Place. By Marga- 
ret Veley' 10 

5&4 Mixed Motives 10 

1091 Modern Cinderella, A. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 10 

1016 Modern Circe, A. By “The 

Duchess” 20 

887 Modern Telemachus, A. By 

Charlotte M. Yonge 20 

881 Mohawks. By Miss M. E. Brad- 
don. 1st half 20 

881 Mohawks. By Miss M. E. Brad- 
don. 2d half 20 

2 Molly Bawn. “The Duchess” 20 
159 Moment of Madness, A. By 

Florence Marryat 10 

125 Monarch of Mincing Lane, The. 

By William Black 20 

1054 Mona’s Choice. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander 20 

201 Monastery, The. By Sir Walter 

Scott 20 

119 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d. 

By “The Duchess” 10 

431 Monikins, The. ByJ. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Vol. 1 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Vol. H 20 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites. 

By “The D.nchess” 10 

102 Moonstone, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

303 More Bitter than Death. By 

Charlotte M. Braerne 10 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 
of a Life in the Highlands. 

By Queen Victoria 10 

116 Moths. By “Ouida” 20 

495 Mount Royal. By Miss M. E. 
Braddon 20 


Mr. Butler’s Ward. By F. Ma- 
bel Robinson 20 

Mr. Meeson’s Will. By H. Ri- 
der Haggard 20 

Mrs. Carr’s Companion. By M. 

G. Wightwick 10 

Mrs. Dymond. By Miss Thack- 
eray 20 

Mrs.Geoffrey. “ The Duchess.” 

(Large type edition) 20 

Mrs.Geoffrey. “The Duchess” 10 
Mrs. Hollyer. By Georgiana M. 

Craik ; 20 

Mrs. Keith’s Crime 10 

Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings. By 

Charles Dickens. 10 

Mrs. Smith of Longmains. By 

Rhoda Broughton 10 

Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. 

By Mrs. Alexander 10 

Mr. Midshipman Easy. By 

Captain MarrA^at 20 

Mr. Smith : AlPart of His Life. 

By B. L. Walford 20 

Murder or Manslaughter? By 

Helen B. Mathers 10 

My Ducats and My Daughter. 

By the author of “ The Crime 

of Christmas Day” 20 

My Fellow Laborer. By H. 

Rider Haggard 20 

My Friend Jim. W. E. Norris 20 
My Friends and I. Edited by 

JulianSturgis 10 

My Hero. By Mrs. Forrester. 20 
My Husband and I. By Count 

Lj^of Tolstoi 10 

My Lady Green Sleeves. By 

Helen B. Mathers 20 

My Lady’s Money. By Wilkie 

Ciollins' 10 

My Lord and My Lady. By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

“ My Own Child.” By Florence 

Marryat 20 

Mj' Poor Wife. By the author 

of “ Addie’s Husband ” 10 

My Sister Kate. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

My Sister the Actress. By Flor- 
ence Marrj'at 20 

Mj'steries of Paris, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Part 1 30 

Mysteries of Paris, The. B.v Eu- 
gene Sue. Part II 30 

Mysterious Hunter, The; or. 
The Man of Death. By Capt. 

L. C. Carletou 20 

Mystery, The. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 20 

Mystery of a Hansom Cab, The. 

By Fergus W. Hume 20 

Mystery of Allan Grale, The. 

By Isabella Fyvie Mayo 20 

Mystery of an Omnibus, The. 

By F. Du Boisgobey 20 

Mystery of a Turkish Bath, The 
By “Rita” 10 


501 

1100 

113 

675 

25 

950 

'606 

546 

440 

645 

339 

991 

256 

635 

596 

1145 

848 

405 

726 

1066 

799 

623 

724 

863 

504 

433 

861 

271 

271 

366 

255 

1075 

662 

1076 

1125 


14 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


969 Mystery of Colde Fell, The; or. 

Not Proven. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne” 20 

454 Mystery of Edwin Brood, The. 

By Chas. Dickens 20 

514 Mystery of Jessy Page, The, 
and Other Tales. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood •• 10 

43 Mystery of Orcival, The. By 

Emile Gaboriau 20 

985 Mystery of the Holly-Tree, 
The. By Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”.. . 20 
725 My Ten Years’ Imprisonment. 

By Silvio Pellico 10 

612 My Wife’s Niece. By author 
of “Doctor Edith Romney ”. 20 
666 My Young Alcides. By Char- 
lotte M. Yonge 20 

574 Nabob, The: A Story of Paris- 
ian Life and Manners. By Al- 
phonse Daudet , 20 

1012 Nameless Sin, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

227 Nancy. By Rhoda Broughton 20 
509 Nell Haflfenden. By Tighe Hop- 
kins 20 

936 Nellie’s Memories. By Rosa 
Nouchette Carey. 1st half. . . 20 
936 Nellie’s Memories. By Rosa 
Nouchette Carey. 2d half... 20 
181 New Abelard, The. By Robert 

Buchanan 10 

856 New Arabian Nights. By Rob- 
ert Louis Stevenson 20 

464 Newcomes, The. By William 
Makepeace Thackeray. Part 

1 20 

464 Newcomes, The. By William 
Makepeace Thackeray. Part 

II 20 

52 New Magdalen, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

1023 Next of Kin— Wanted. By M. 

Betham-Edwards 20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles 

Dickens. 1st half 20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles 

Dickens. 2d half 20 

909 Nine of Hearts, The. By B. L. 

Farjeon 20 

1005 99 Dark Street. By F. W. Rob- 
inson 20 

105 Noble Wife, A. John Saunders 20 
864 “ No Intentions.” By Florence 

Marryat 20 

.565 No Medium. By Annie Thomas 10 
1119 No Name. By Wilkie Collins. 

1st half 20 

ill9 No Name. By Wilkie Collins. 

2d half 20 

1086 Nora. By Carl Detlef 20 

290 Nora’s Love Test. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

595 North Country Maid, A. By 
Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron 20 


1011 North Versus South ; or, Tex- 
ar’s Vengeance. By Jules 

Verne. Parts I. and II 20 

812 No Saint. By Adeline Sergeant 20 
168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 10 

215 Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey' 20 

969 Not Proven; or. The Mystery 
of Colde Fell. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme 20 

765 Not Wisely, But Too Well. By 

Rhoda Broughton 20 

614 No. 99. By Arthur Griffiths . . 10 

766 No. XIII. ; or, 'I'he Story of the 

Lost Vestal. Emma Marshall 10 
1077 Nun’s Curse, The. By Mrs. J. 

H. Riddell 20 

640 Nuttie’s Father. By Charlotte 
M. Yonge 20 

425 Oak-Openings, The; or. The 
Bee-Hunter. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

211 Octoroon, The. ByMissM. E. 

Braddon 10 

1088 Old Age of M. Lecoq, The. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

1088 Old Age of M. Lecoq, The. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

183 Old Contrairy, and Other Sto- 
ries. By Fiorence Marryat.. 10 


10 Old Curiosity Shop, The. By 

Charles Dickens 20 

410 Old Lady Mary. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant ”. 10 

858 Old Ma’m’selle’s Secret. By E. 

Marlitt 20 

72 Old Myddelton’s Money. By 

Mary Cecil Hay 20 

645 Oliver’s Bride. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 10 

41 Oliver Twist. By Charles 
Dicl^Giis 20 

605 Ombra. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 
ciety. By Mrs. Forrester. , 10 
883 Once Again. By Mrs. Forrester 20 
143 One False, Both Fair. By John 

B. Harwood 20 

342 One New Year’s Eve. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

840 One Thing Needful; or. The 
Penalty of Fate. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 2Q 

1049 On Going Back. By H. Rider 

Haggard.... 20 

985 On Her Wedding Morn. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 20 

384 On Horseback Through Asia 
Minor. By Captain Fred Bur- 
naby 20 

498 Only a Clod. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

1072 Only a Coral Girl. By Gertrude 

Forde 20 

1112 Only a Word. By George Ebers 20 
496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss 
M. E. Braddon 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


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1064 Only the Governess. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 

655 Open Door, The. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 

998 Open, Sesame ! By Florence 

Marryat 

708 Ormond. By Maria Edgeworth 
12 Other People’s Money. By 

Emile Gaboriau 

639 Othmar. By “ Ouida.” 1st half 
639 Othmar. By “ Ouida.” 2d half 
859 Ottilie: An Eighteenth Century 

Idyl. By Vernon Lee 

838 Ought We to Visit Her? By 

Mrs. Annie Edwards 

131 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles 

Dickens. 1st half 

131 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles 

Dickens. 2d half 

1133 Our New Mistress; or, Changes 
at Brookfield Earl. By Char- 
lotte M. Yonge 

747 Our Sensation Novel. Edited 
by Justin H. McCarthy, M.P. 
925 Outsider, The. Hawley Smart 
870 Out of His Reckoning. By 

Florence Marryat 

1130 Owl-House, The. A Posthu- 
mous Novel. By E. Marlitt. 
Finished by W. Heimburg. . . 


530 Pair of Blue Eyes, A. By 

Thomas Hardy 

587 Parson o’ Dumford, The. By 

G. Manville Feun 

238 Pascarel. By “Ouida” 

1107 Passenger from Scotland 
Yard, The. By H. F. Wood. . 
822 Passion Flower, A. A Novel.. 
517 Passive Crime, A, and Other 
Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 
886 Paston Carew, Millionaire and 
Miser. Mrs. E. Lynn Linton. 
309 Pathfinder, The. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 

720 Paul Clifford. By SirE. Bulwer 

Lytton, Bart 

571 Paul Carew’s Story. By Alice 

Corny ns Carr 

525 Paul Vargas, and Other Stor- 
ies. By Hugh Conway, au- 
thor of “ Called Back ” 

994 Penniless Orphan, A. By W. 

Heimburg 

449 Peeress and Player. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 

013 Percy and the Prophet. By 

Wilkie Collins 

776 Pdre Goriot. By H. De Balzac 
314 Peril. By Jessie Fothergill. . . 
965 Periwinkle. By Arnold Gray. 
568 Perpetual Curate, The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 

133 Peter the Whaler. By William 

H. G. Kingston 

868 Petronel. By Florence Marryat 
392 Peveril of the Peak. By Sir 

Walter Scott 


326 Phan tastes. A Faerie Romance 
for Men and Women. By 

George Macdonald 10 

56 Phantom Fortune. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

845 Philip Earnscliffe ; or. The Mor- 
als of May Fair. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards 20 

336 Philistia. By Cecil Power 20 

669 Philosophy of Whist, The. By 
William Pole 20 


903 Phyllida. By Florence Marryat 20 
16 Phyllis. By “The Duchess”. 20 
372 Phyllis’ Probation. By the au- 
thor of “ His Wadded Wife ” . 10 
537 Piccadilly. Laurence Oliphant 10 
24 Pickwick Papers. By Charles 


Dickens. Vol. 1 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. II 20 

448 Pictures From Italy ; and The 
Mudfog Papers, &c. By Chas. 
Dickens 20 

206 Picture, The. By Charles 

Reade 10 

264 Pi6douche, a French Detective. 

By Fortune Du Boisgobey... 10 
318 Pioneers, The ; or. The Sources 
of the Susquehanna. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

393 Pirate, The. Sir Walter Scott 20 
850 Play Wright’s Daughter, A. By 

Mrs. Annie Edwards 10 

818 Pluck. By John Strange Winter 10 
869 Poison of Asps, The. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

836 Point of Honor, A. By Mrs, An- 
nie Edwards 20 

1069 Polikouchka. By Count Lyof 

Tolstoi 10 

329 Polish Jew, The. (Translated 
from the French by Caroline 
A. Merighi.) By Erckmann- 

Chatrian 10 

831 Pomegranate Seed. By the au- 
thor of “ The Two Miss Flem- 
ings.” 20 

902 Poor Gentleman, A. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

325 Portent, The. By George Mac- 
donald 10 

6 Portia. By “The Duchess ”.. 20 
655 Portrait, The. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 
558 Poverty Corner. By G. Man- 
ville Fenn 20 

310 Prairie, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

422 Precaution. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

828 Prettiest Woman in Warsaw, 

The. By Mabel Collins 20 

697 Pretty Jailer, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

697 Pretty Jailer, The. By F. Du 
Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

207 Pretty Miss Neville. By B. M. 

Croker 20 

475 Prima Donna’s Husband, The. 

By F. Du Boisgobey 30 


20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

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20 

10 

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20 

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20 

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20 

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10 

20 

20 

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20 

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20 

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16 


THE SEASIDE LlBRxVRY— Pocket Edition. 


531 Prime Minister, The. By An- 
thony Trollope. 1st half. .... 20 
531 Prime Minister, The. By An- 
thony Trollope. 2d half 20 

624 Primus in Indis. By M. J. Col- 

quhoun 10 

1137 Prince Charming. By the au- 
thor of *‘A Great Mistake”.. 20 
249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter;” 
or. The Cost of Her Love. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 10 

556 Prince of Darkness, A. By F. 

Warden 20 

859 Prince of the 100 Soups, The. 

Edited by Vernon Lee 20 

704 Prince Otto. R. L. Stevenson. 10 
855 Princess Dagomar of Poland, 
The. Heinrich Felbermann. 10 
228 Princess Napraxine. “ Ouida ” 20 
1136 Princess pf the Moor, The. By 
E. Marlitt 20 

23 Pi'incess of Thule, A. By Will- 
iam Black 20 

1117 Princess Sarah. By John 

Strange Winter 10 

88 Privateersman, The. By Cap- 
tain Marryat 20 

321 Prodigals, The : And Their In- 
heritance. By Mrs. Oliphant. 10 

944 Professor, The. By Charlotte 

Bront6 . 20 

144 Promises of Marriage. By 

Emile Gaboriau 10 

260 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker 10 
947 Publicans and Sinners; or, Lu- 
cius Davoren. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon. 1st half 20 

947 Publicans and Sinners; or, Lu- 
cius Davoren. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon. 2d half 20 

1000 Puck. By “Ouida.” 1st half 20 
1000 Puck. By “ Ouida.” 2d half 20 
912 Pure Gold. By Mrs. H. Lovett 

Cameron. 1st half 20 

912 Pivre Gold. By Mrs. H. Lovett 

* Cameron. 2d half 20 

516 Put Asunder; or. Lady Castle- 
maine’s Divorce. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

487 Put to the Test. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

214 Put Yourself in His Place. By 
Chai’les Reade 20 


68 Queen Amongst Women, A. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 10 

932 Queenie’s Whim. By Rosa Nou- 

chette Carey. 1st half 20 

932 Queenie’s Whini. BvRosaNou- 

chette Carey. 2d half 20 

591 Queen of Hearts, The. By Wil- 

Kie Collins 20 

!061 Queer Race, A: The Story of 
a Strange People. By William 
Westall 20 


641 Rabbi’s Spell, The. By Stuart 

C. Cumberland 10 

147 Rachel Ray. By Anthony Trol- 
lope 20 

661 Rainbow Gold. By David Chris- 
tie Murray 20 

433 Rainy June, A. By “ Ouida ”. 10 
700 Ralph the Heir. By Anthony 

Trollope. 1st half 20 

700 Ralph the Heir. By Anthony 

Trollope. 2d half 20 

815 Ralph Wilton’s Weird. By Mrs. 

Alexander 10 

442 Ranthorpe. By George Henry 

Lewes 20 

780 Rare Pale Margaret. By the au- 
thor of “ What’s His Offence?” 20 
279 Rattlin, the Reefer. By Captain 

Marryat 20 

327 Raymond’s Atonement. (From 
the German of E. Werner.) 

By Christina Tyrrell 20 

210 Readiana : Comments on Cur- 
rent Events. By Chas. Reade 10 
1138 Recoiling Vengeance, A. By- 

Frank Barrett 20 

768 Red as a Rose is She. By Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

918 Red Band, The. By F. Du Bois- 

gobey. 1st half 20 

918 Red Band, The. By F. Du Bois- 

gobey. 2d half 20 

381 Red Cardinal, The. By Frances 

Elliot 10 

1021 Red-Court Farm, The. By Mrs. 
Henry Wood 30 

73 Redeemed by Love; or. Love’s 
Victory. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme 20 

89 Red Eric, The. ByR. M. Ballan- 

tyne 10 

463 Redgauntlet. By Sir Walter 

Scott 20 

580 Red Route, The. By William 
Sime 20 


361 Red Rover. The. A Tale of the 
Sea. By J. Feiiimore Cooper 20 
421 Redskins, The; or, Indian and 
Injin. Being the conclusion 
of the Littlepage Manuscripts. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

427 Remarkable History of Sir 
Thomas Upmore, Bart., M.P., 
The. Formerly known as 
“ Tommy Upmore.” By R. 

D. Blackmore 20 


237 Repented at Leisure. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne.” (Large ty^p© 

edition) 30 

967 Repented at Leisure. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

1146 Rhoda Fleming. By George 

Meredith. 1st half 20 

1146 Rhoda Fleming. By George 

Meredith. 2d half 30 

740 Rhona. By Mrs. Forrester. ... 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY — Pocket Edition, 


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375 Ride to Khiva, A. By Captain 


Fred Burnaby, of .the Royal 

Horse Guards 20 

1144 Rienzi. By Sir E. Bulwer Lyt- 

ton. 1st half 20 

1144 Rienzi. By Sir E. Bulwep- Lyt- 


1116 Robert Elsmere. By Mrs. 

Humphry Ward. 1st half 20 

1116 Robert Elsmere. By Mrs. 

Humphry Ward. 2d lialf 20 

396 Robert Ord’s Atonement, By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey 20 

976 Robur the Conqueror; or, A 
Trip Round the World in a 
Flying Machine. By Jules 
Verne 20 

1141 Rogue, The. By W. E. Norris. 

1st half 20 

1141 Rogue, The. By W. E. Norris. 

2d half 20 

816 Rogues and Vagabonds. By 
George R. Sims, author of 

“’Ostler Joe” 20 

190 Romance of a Black Veil. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
ot “Dora Thorne” 10 

741 Romance of a Y oung Girl, The ; 
or. The Heiress of Hilldrop. 

By Charlotte M. Braeme .20 

66 Romance of a Poor Y oung Man, 

The. By Octave Feuillet 10 

139 Romantic Adventures of a 
Milkmaid, The. By Thomas 

Hardy 10 

898 Romeo and Juliet: A Tale of 
Two Young Fools. By Will- 
iam Black 20 

42 Romola. By George Eliot 20 

360 Ropes of Sand. By R. E. Fran- 

cillon 20 

664 Rory O’More. Samuel Lover 20 
193 Rosery Folk, The, By G. Man- 

ville Fenn 10 

670 Rose and the Ring, The. By 
W. M. Thackeray. . Illustrated 10 
119 Rose Distill’d, A. By “The 

Duchess” 10 

103 Rose Fleming. By Dora Russell 10 

296 Rose in Thorns, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thome” 10 

129 Rossmoyne. By “The Duchess” 10 
1^ Round the Galley Fire. By W. 

Clark Russell 10 

1153 Round the Moon. By Jules 

Verne. Illustrated 20 

666 Royal Highlanders, The; or. 
The Black Watch in Egypt. 

By James Grant 20 

736 Roy and Viola. Mrs. Forrester 20 
409 Roy’s Wife, By G. J, Whyte- 

Melville 20 

489 Rupert Godwin. By Miss M. E, 

Braddon 20 

467 Russians at the Gates of Herat, 
The. By Charles Marvin .... 10 


Sabina Zembra. By William 

Black. 1st half 20 

Sabina Zembra. By William 

Black. 2d half 20 

Sacred Nugget, The. By B. L. 

Farjeon 20 

Saint Michael. By E. Werner. 

1st half 20 

Saint Michael. By E. Werner. 

2d lialf 20 

Sailor’s Sweetheart, A. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

Salem Chapel. Mrs. Oliphant 20 
Sam’s Sweetheart, By Helen 

B. Mathers 20 

Satanstoe; or. The Littlepage 
Manuscripts. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

Scheherazade: ALondon 
Night’s Entertainment. By 

Florence Warden 20 

Scottish Chiefs, The. By Miss 

Jane Porter. 1st half 20 

Scottish Chiefs, The. By Miss 

Jane Porter. 2d half 20 

Sculptor’s Daughter, The. By 
F, Du Boisgobey. 1st half ... 20 
Sculptor’s Daughter, The. By 

F. Du Boisgobey, ^ half 20 

Sea Change, A. By Flora L. 

Shaw 20 

Sealed Lips. F. Du Boisgobey 20 
Sea Lions, The ; or. The Lost 

Sealers. By J. F. Cooper 20 

Sea Queen, A. By W. Clark 

Russell 20 

Sebastopol. By Count Lyof 

Tolstoi 20 

Second Life, A. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander 20 

Second Thoughts. By Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

Second Wife, The. By E. Mar- 

litt 20 

Secret Dispatch, The. By 

James Grant 10 

Secret of Her Life, The. By Ed 

ward Jenkins. , 20 

Secret of the Cliffs, The. By 

Charlotte French 20 

Self-Doomed. By B. L. Farjeon 10 
“ Self or Bearer.” By Walter 

Besant 10 

Serapis. By George Ebers 20 

Set in Diamonds. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

Severed Hand, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

Severed Hand, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

Shadow in the Corner, The. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 10 

Shadow of a Crime, The. By 

Hall Caioe 20 

Shadow of a Sin, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 10 


962 

962 

616 

1067 

1067 

223 

177 

795 

420 

1037 

660 

660 

699 

699 

441 

82 

423 

85 

1108 

490 

101 

999 

781 

810 

387 

607 

651 

474 

792 

10S2 

1082 

548 

445 

293 


18 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pockbt Edition. 


948 Shadow of a Sin, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme. (Large type 

edition) 20 

18 Shandon Bells. By Wm. Black 20 
988 Shattered Idol, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

910 She: A History of Adventure. 

By H. Rider Haggard 20 

141 She Loved Himl By Annie 
Thomas , 10 

520 She's All the World to Me. By 

Hall Caine 10 

801 She Stoops to Conquer. By 

Oliver Goldsmith 10 

57 Shirley. By Charlotte BrontO 20 
966 Siege Baby, A. By John 

Strange Winter 20 

239 Signa. By“Ouida” 20 

1052 Signa’s Sweetheart. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

707 Silas Marner: The Weaver of 
Raveloe. By George Eliot, . . 10 
1034 Silence of Dean Maitland, The, 

By Maxwell Gray 20 

913 Silent Shore, The. By John 

Bloundelle- Burton 20 

1110 Silverado Squatters, The. By 

R. L, Stevenson 10 

539 Silvermead. By Jean Middle- 

mas 20 

681 Singer’s Story, A. By May 


252 Sinless Secret, A. By “ Rita ” 10 
283 Sin of a Lifetime, The. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant, By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

1114 Sisters, The. By George Ebers 20 
643 Sketch-book of Geoffrey Cray- 
on, Gent, The, By Washing- 
ton Iiwing 20 

456 Sketches by Boz. Illustrative 
of Every-day Life and Every- 
day People. By Charles Dick- 



1078 Slaves of Paris, The.— Black- 
mail. By Emile Gaboriau. 1st 

half 20 

1078 Slaves of Paris, The. — The 
Champdoce Secret. By Emile 

Gaboriau. 2d half 20 

601 Slings and Arrows, and other 
Stories, By Hugh Conway, 
author of “Called Back”... 10 
491 Society in London. By a For- 
eign Resident 10 

505 Society of London, The. By 

Count Paul Vasili 10 

778 Society’s Verdict. By the au- 
thor of “ My Marriage ” 20 

114 Some of Our Girls. By Mrs. C, 

J. Eiloart 20 

412 Some One Else, B, M. Croker20 
194 “So Near, and Yet So Farl” 

By Alison 10 


Son of His Father, The. By 


Mrs. Oliphant 20 

Southern Star, The; or, The 
Diamond Land. Jules Verne 20 
Springhaven. By R. D. Black- 

more. 1st half 20 

Springhaven. By R. D. Black- 

more. 2d half 20 

Spy, The. J, Fenimore Cooper 20 
Squire’s Darling, The. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

Squire’s Legacy, The. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

Stabbed in the Dark. By Mrs. 

E. Lynn Linton 10 

Star and a Heart, A. By Flor- 
ence Marry at 10 

Starling, The. By Norman 

Macleod, D.D 10 

Stella. By Fanny Lewald 20 

Stern Chase, A. By Mrs. 

Cashel-Hoey 20 

Steven Lawrence. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards. 1st half 20 

Steven Lawrence. By Mrs, 

Annie Edwards. 2d half 20 

“ Storm-Beaten ;” God and The 
Man. By Robert Buchanan. 20 
Stormy Waters. By Robert 


By Ralph Iron (Olive Schrei- 
ner.) 20 

Story of a Sin. By Helen B. 

Mathers 20 

Story of Dorothy Gr^e, The, 
and Other Tales. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood 10 

Story of Ida, The. By lYan- 

cesca 10 

Strange Adventures of a 
House - Boat, The, By Will- 
iam Black 20 

Strange Adventures of a Phae- 
ton, The. By William Black. 20 
Strange Adventures of Captain 
Dangerous, The. By George 

Augustus Sala 20 

Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 
Mr. Hyde. By Robert Louis 

Stevenson lo 

Strangers and Pilgrims. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

Strange Story, A. By Sir E. 

Bulwer Lytton 20 

Strange Voyage, A. By W, 

Clark Russell 20 

Strange World, A, By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

Strathmore; or. Wrought by 
His Own Hand. By “ Ouida.” 

1st half 20 

Strathmore; or. Wrought by 
His Own Hand. By “ Ouida.” 

2d half 20 

St. Ronan’s Well. By Sir Wal- 
ter Scott 20 


880 

368 

926 

926 

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793 

281 

817 

895 

158 

436 

802 

846 

846 

145 

1074 

1120 

673 

610 

53 

1096 

50 

756 

686 

524 

83 

592 

511 

974 

974 

418 


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550 Struck Down. Hawley Smart 10 
467 Straggle for a Ring, A. Char- 
lotte M. Braeme 20 

71 Struggle for Fame, A. By Mrs. 

J. H. Riddell 20 

745 Struggle for Love, A ; or. For 
Another’s Sin. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

964 Struggle for the Right, A; or, 
Tracking the Truth 20 

222 Sun-Maid, The. By Miss Grant 20 
21 Sunrise: A Story of These 

Times. By Wm. Black 20 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 
ana’s Discipline. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme^ author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 10 

363 Surgeon’s Daughter, The. By 

Sir Walter Scott 10 

277 Surgeon’s Daughters, The. By 
Mrs. Henry Wood 10 

844 Susan Fielding. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards 20 

927 Sweet Cymbeline. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

” Dora Thorne ” 20 

123 Sweet is True Love. By “ The 

Duchess ” 10 

316 Sworn to Silence; or. Aline 
Rodney’s Secret. By Mrs. 
Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

S59 Taken at the Flood. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

117 Tale of the Shore and Ocean, 

A. By Wm. H. G. Kingston . . 20 
1049 Tale of Three Lions, A. By H. 

Rider Haggard 20 

77 Tale of Two Cities, A. By 

Charles Dickens 20 

343 Talk of the Town, The. By 

James Payn 20 

1142 Ten Thousand a Year. By 

Samuel Warren. Part 1 20 

1142 Ten Thousand a Year. By 

Samuel Warren. Part II 20 

1142 Ten Thousand a Year. By 

Samuel Warren. Part III 20 

213 Terrible Temptation, A. By 

Chas. Reade 20 

1011 Texar’s Vengeance; or. North 
Versus South. By Jules Verne. 

Part 1 20 

1011 Texar’s Vengeance; or. North 
Versus South. By Jules Verne. 

Part II 20 

696 Thaddeus of Warsaw. By Miss 

Jane Porter 20 

996 That Beautiful Lady. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

49 That Beautiful Wretch. By 

William Black 20 

136 “That Last Rehearsal,” and 
Other Stories. By “The 


Duchess ” 10 


915 That Other Person. By Mrs. 

Alfred Hunt. 1st half 20 

915 That Other Person. By Mrs. 

Alfred Hunt. 2d half SO 

365 That Terrible Man. By W. E. 

Norris 10 

892 That Winter Night; or. Love’s 
Victory. Robert Buchanan. . 10 
1131 Thelma. By Marie Corelli. 

1st half ; 20 

1131 Thelma. By Marie Corelli. M 

half 20 

48 Thicker than Water. By 

James Payn 20 

184 Thirlby Hall. By W. E. Norris 20 
1045 13th Hussars, The. By Emile 

Gabbriau 20 

1008 Thorn in Her Heart, A. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. 

By Charlotte M. Braeme, au- 
thor of “Dora Thorne” 10 

1015 Thousand Francs Reward, A. 

By Emile Gaboriau 20 

275 Three Brides, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Yonge 10 

775 Three Clerks,The. By Anthony 

Trollope 20 

124 Three Feathers. By Wm. Black ^ 
55 Three Guardsmen, The. By 
Alexander Dumas 20 


382 Three Sisters ; or. Sketches of 
a Highly Original Family. 

By Elsa D’Esterre-Keeling.. . 10 
1109 Through the Long Nights. By 

Mrs. E. Lynn Linton. 1st half 20 
1109 Through the Long Nights. By 
Mrs. E. Lynn Linton. 2d half 20 
789 Through the Looking-Glass, 
and What Alice Found There. 

By Lewis Carroll. With fifty 
illustrations by John Tenniel. 20 
471 Thrown on the World. By Char- 


lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

833 Ticket No. “9672.” By Jules 

Verne. 1st half 10 

833 Ticket No. “ 9672.” By Jules 

Verne. 2d half 10 

367 Tie and Trick. Hawley Smart 20 
485 Tinted Vapours. J.Maclaren 

Cobban 10 

503 Tinted Venus, The. F. Anstey. 10 
980 To Call Her Mine. By Walter 

1139 Tom Brown at Oxford. By 

Thomas Hughes. Vol. 1 20 

1139 Tom Brown at Oxford. By 
Thomas Hughes. Vol. II 20 

120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 
Rugby. By Thomas Hughes. 20 
243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.’’ By 

Charles Lever. 1st half 20 

243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” By 

Charles Lever. 2d half 20 

1081 Too Curious. By Edward J. 
Goodman 20 


30 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


567 To the Bitter End. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

879 Touchstone of Peril, The. By 

R. E. Forrest 20 

1050 Tour of the World in 80 Days, 

The. By Jules Verne 20 

888 Treasure Island. Robert Louis 

Stevenson 10 

1017 Tricotrin. The Story of a Waif 
and Stray. By “ Ouida.” 1st 
half 20 

1017 Tricotrin. The Story of a Waif 

and Stray. By “Ouida.” 2d 

half 20 

858 True Magdalen, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

945 Trumpet-Major, The. Thomas 

Hardy 20 

346 Tumbledown Farm. By Alan 

Muir 10 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. 

By Jules Verne 20 

75 Twenty Years After. By Alex- 
ander Dumas 20 

714 ’Twixt Love and Duty. By 

Tighe Hopkins 20 

924 ’Twixt Smile and Tear. Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

349 Two Admirals, The. A Tale of 
the Sea. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

1073 Two Generations. By Count 

Lyof Tolstoi 10 

307 Two Kisses. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thome” ; 10 

1018 Two Marriages. ByMissMul- 

ock 20 

784 Two Miss Flemings, The. By 
the author of “ What’s His Of- 
fence?” 20 

242 Two Orphans, The. By D’En- 

nery 10 

563 Two Sides of the Shield, The. 

By Charlotte M. Yonge 20 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. 

By R. H. Dana, Jr 20 

407 TylneyHall. By Thomas Hood 20 

983 Uarda. By George Ebers 20 

862 Ugly Barrington, By “ The 

Duchess.” 10 

137 Uncle Jack. By Walter Besant 10 
541 Uncle Jack. By Walt€'’ Besant 10 
930 Uncle Max. By RosaNouchette 

Carey. 1st half 20 

930 Uncle Max. By RosaNouchette 

Carey. 2<1 half 20 

152 Uncommercial Traveler, The, 

By Charles Dickens 20 

174 Under a Ban. By Mrs. Lodge 20 
1123 Under - Currents. By “ The 

Duchess.” 20 

460 Under a Shadow. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 


852 Under Five Lakes; or. The 
Cruise of the “ Destroyer.” 

By M. Quad 20 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses. 

By Florence Marryat (Mrs, 

Francis Lean) 10 

110 Under the Red Flag. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 10 

1024 Under the Storm; or. Stead- 
fast’s Charge. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

4 Under Two Flags. By “Ouida” 20 
340 Under Which King? By Comp- 
ton Reade 20 

718 Unfairly Won. By Mrs, Power 

O’Donoghue 20 

634 Unforeseen, The. By Alice 

O’Hanlon 20 

508 Unholy Wish, The. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood 10 

735 Until the Day Breaks, By 

Emily Spender 20 

654 “Us.” An Old-fashioned Story. 

By Mrs. Molesworth 10 


837 Vagabond Heroine, A. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards 10 

482 Vagrant Wife, A. F. Warden 20 
691 Valentine Strange. By David 

Christie Murray ; 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander 10 

27 Vanity Fair. By William M. 

Thackeray. l.st half 20 

27 Vanity Fair. By William M. 

Thackeray, 2d half 20 

1068 Vendetta! or. The Story of 
One Forgotten. By Marie 

Corelli ... . 20 

426 Venus’s Doves. By Ida Ash- 
worth Taylor 20 

891 Vera Nevill; or. Poor Wisdom’s 
Chance. By Mrs. H. Lovett 

Cameron 20 

46 Very Hard Cash. By Charles 

Reade 20 

59 Vice VersS,. By F. Anstey... ^ 
716 Victor and Vanquished. By 

Mary Cecil Ha 3 ' 20 

583 Victory Deane. Cecil Griffith ^ 
545 Vida’s Storv. By author of 

“ Guilty Without Crime ” 10 

734 Viva. Bv Mrs. Forrester 20 

793 Vivian Grey. By the Rt. Hon. 
Benjamin* Disraeli, Earl of 

Beaconsfield, 1st half 20 

793 Vivian Grey. By the Rt. Hon. 
Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of 

Beaconsfield. 2d half 20 

835 Vivian the Beauty. By Mrs. 

Annie Kd wards 20 

283 Vivien’s Atonement; or. The 
Sin of a Lifetime. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

204 Vixen. By Miss M. E. Braddon 90 
777 Voyages and Travels of Sir 
John Maundeville, Kt., The.. 10 


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21 


884 Voyap:e to the Cape, A. By W. 
Clark Russell 20 


659 Waif of the “ Cynthia,” The. 

By Jules Verne 20 

9 Wauda, Couutess von Szalras.' 

By “Ouida” 20 

870 Wandering Jew, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Part 1 30 

270 Wandering Jew, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Part II 30 

621 Warden, The. By Anthony 

Trollope 10 

2C6 Water-Babies, The. A Fairy 
Tale for a Land-Baby. By the 

Rev. Charles Kingsley 10 

512 Waters of Hercules, The 20 

112 Waters of Marah, The. By 

John Hill 20 

359 Water-Witch, The. By J. Feni- 

inore Cooper 20 

401 Waverley. By Sir Walter Scott 20 
195 ” Way of the World, The.” By 

David Christie Murray 20 

415 Ways of the Hour, The. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

344 “Wearing of the Green. The.” 

By Basil 20 

943 Weavers and Weft; or, “ Love 
That Hath Us in His Net.” 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

961 Wee Wifle. By Rosa N. Carey 20 
312 Weekin Killaraey, A. By “The 

Duchess” 10 

458 Week of Passion, A; or. The 
Dilemma of Mr. George Bar- 
ton the Younger. By Edward 

Jenkins 20 

79 Wedded and Parted. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 10 

628 Wedded Hands. By the author 

of “ My Lady’s Folly ” 20, 

400 Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish, The. 

By J Fenimore Cooper 20 

637 What’s His Offence? By author 
of “ The Two Miss Flemings ” 20 
728 What’s Mine’s Mine. George 

Macdonald 20 

679 Where Two Ways Meet. By 

Sarah Doudney 10 

220 Which Loved Him Best? By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 10 

236 W’hich Shall It Be? By Mrs. 

20 

627 White Heather. By Wm. Black 20 
70 White Wings: A Yachting Ro- 
mance. By William Black . . 10 
335 White Witch, The. A Novel.. 20 
939 Why Not? Florence Marryat. 20 
849 Wicked Girl, A. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

38 WTdow Lerouge, The. By Emile 

Gaboriau 20 

76 Wife in Name Only; or, A Bro- 
ken Heart. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 30 


254 Wife’s Secret, The, and Fair 
but False. By Charlotte M. 
Brae .me, author of “ Dora 


Thorne ” 10 

323 Willful Maid, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

908 Willful Young Woman, A 20 

761 Will Weatherhelm. By Wm. 

H. G. Kingston 20 

373 Wing-and-WTng. By J. Feni- 
more Cooper 20 

163 Winifred Power. By Joyce Dar- 
rell 20 

472 Wise Women of Inverness, 

The. By Wm. Black 10 

134 Witching Hour, The, and Other 
Stories. By “The Duchess ”. 10 
432 Witch’s Head, The. By H. 
Rider Haggard 20 

872 With Cupid’s Eyes. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 20 

20 Within an Inch of His Life. 

By Emile Gaboriau 20 

358 Within the Clasp. By J. Ber- 
wick Harwood 20 

809 Witness My Hand. By the au- 
thor of “ Lady Gwendolen’s 

Tr3’st ” 10 

957 Wood landers. The. By Thomas 

Hardy 20 

98 Woman-Hater, A. By Charles 
Reade 20 

705 Woman I Loved, The, and the 
Woman Who Loved Me. By 
Isa Blagden 10 


701 Woman in White, The. Wjlkie 
Collins. Illustrated. 1st half 20 
701 Woman in White, The. Wilkie 
Collins, niustrated. 2d half 20 
854 Woman’s Error, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 


“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

1087 Woman’s Face, A. By F. War- 
den 20 

322 Woman’s Love-Story, A. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

459 Woman’s Temptation, A. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme. (Large 
type edition) 20 

951 Woman’s Temptation, A. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

295 Woman’s War, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 10 

952 Woman’s War, A. By (’harlotte 

M. Braeme. (Large type edi- 
tion) 20 

900 Worn an ’s Wit, By. By Mrs. Al- 
exander 20 

934 Wooed and Married. By Rosa 
Nouchette Carey. 1st half. . . 20 
934 Wooed and Married. By Rosa 
Nouchette Carey. 2d half. ... 20 


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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


17 Wooing O’t, The. By Mrs. Al- 

821 World Between Them, The. By 
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of “Dora Thorne.” 20 

906 World Went Very Well Then, 

The. By Walter Besant 20 

963 Worth Winning. By Mrs. H. 

Lovett Cameron 20 

1048 Wreck of the “Grosvenor,” 
The. By W. Clark Russell. ., 20 
865 Written in Fire. By Florence 

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380 Wyandotte; or. The Hutted 
Knoll. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 
434 Wy Hard’s Weird.' By Miss M. 

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709 Zenobia ; or. The Fall of Pal- 
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709 Zenobia; or. The Fall of Pal- 
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428 ZOro: A Story of Monte-Carlo. 

By Mrs. Campbell-Praed 10 

522 Zig-Zag, the Clown; or. The 
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NO. PKICIC, 

669 Pole on Whist 20 

432 THE WITCH’S HEAD. By 
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1128 Cousin Pons. By Honor6 De 

Balzac 20 

1129 The Flying Dutchman; or, The 

Death Ship. By W. Clark 
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1139 Tom Brown at Oxford. By 

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1152 From the Earth to the Moon. 

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1153 Round the Moon. By Jules 

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1154 A Judgment of God. By E. 

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Heiress of .Arne. By Char- 
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1156 A Witch of the Hills. By Flor- 

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1157 A Two Years’ Vacation. Illus- 

trated. By Jules Verne 20 

1158 My Poor Dick. By J. S. Winter. 10 

1159 Mr. Fortescue. An Andean 

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half 20 

1160 We Two. By Edna Lyall. 2d 

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